Morena's Rise
by Abbeygirl06
Summary: Very loosely based on Cinderella. Morena, a poor maid is given music lessons by a great, wealthy musician who thinks she has talent. Despite the difference in their social classes the two become very close and face challenge after challenge. PLEASE R
1. Default Chapter

Summary: Morena Arcezzi, a poor maid, is taught lessons by a great, wealthy musician who believes she has talent. Despite the enormous difference in their social classes they develop a friendship which is constantly threatened, and which itself threatens to develop into something deeper to the shock of both characters, as Morena climbs to new heights. My first fanfic, enjoy. I'd love some advice positive or negative so please review. Thanks!

Author's Note: Itolnian is based on Italian. C says "ch" before e or i, z says "tz" and r is rolled. If anyone knows much about Italian please give me some tips. Thanks!

Morena entered the room reverently, almost as she would enter a church. This was where _he_ slept. He, in her opinion the greatest of composers. Cautiously, as if afraid her ligt touch would break it, she laid her fingertips on the violin lying on the bed.

She was Morena Arzecci, indentured servant to Viscomt DeMarsais for the past six years since she was twelve. She was from Colista, a port town in the land of Itolni. After her father died when she was eleven, her mother could find no work and she and her family, her four little siblings, were destitute. The Viscount had wandered upon them during a visit to Colista. Observing their desperate situation, he offered to buy Morena as an indentured servant for ten years in exchange for a considerable amount of money. Although it hurt Morena and her mother to agree, they had no choice. The Viscount brought Morena to his manor in Fraznia where she had lived out the past six years. She was far from happy. As a vibrant child she'd played along the wharfs of her native town, charming everyone she met. Her years of servitude had made her taciturn and sad and extremely pensive, masking the vibrancy within. She almost feared her superiors as she'd learned that punishment awaited disobedience. She did not rest from dawn to dusk cleaning and washing and polishing until she collapsed, exhausted at the end of the day only to begin again the next.

She had though, found a source of comfort: music. The Viscount loved it and constantly invited musicians and singers to his manor. Morena was always able to sneak away and listen. Once, a violinist forgot his violin in his bedroom which Morena cleaned. She kept it hidden at the bottom of her trunk and during her few spare minutes alone had taught herself how to play it.

Morena was eighteen. Tall, rather too skinny, with light skin from years of working indoors, black hair and deep, green eyes. Outside she was, as we have said, quiet and respectful, but inside a thousand lively thoughts still danced in her head. She commented to herself on everything. How funny the Viscount looked with his hair cut so. His daughter, Bianca's annoying habit of staring. How the Viscountess always seemed to look like a chipmunk, ready to fight something thrice her size. The result perhaps of her husband berating her on only bearing one child, and a female one at that. Morena rarely laughed though. She was lonely, wishing for someone to meet her to whom she could relate. She still felt like a stranger in this foreign country and most other servants, though not hostile, felt the same and kept their distance from the foreigner.

Right now the Viscount had invited Baron Rodrigo Di Divezi, his father's cousin's son, to spend a few months with him. The Baron was a very wealthy nobleman of Itolni who had cast himself in with the musicians after the death of his parents, resulting in his inheritance. He was generally considered a musical genius. Morena always liked his music best. It stirred something within her; it made her feel happy.

Looking at this beautiful violin that surely Signor Di Devezi himself had touched, she forgot her work and felt drawn to it; longed for it as much as she longed to see her family again. Gently fingering it, she slowly lifted it to her shoulder, laid the bow on it and began to play one of Di Devezi's songs. Playing on that violin made her loose herself in another world from which she was rudely jolted by a sharp voice behind her saying,

"Where did you learn that?"

"I'm sorry Sir." she said turning around and putting down the instrument, her heart beating in panic. The Viscount would be furious if he found out. He hated to be disobeyed and touching a guest's things except to clean them was strictly against regulations.

"Answer me!"

She told him of the left behind violin.

"Play again." he ordered.

"Sir?" she said nervously

"Play!"

Mechanically she picked up the violin and began playing another of Di Divezi's tunes. After a few bars he stopped her.

"You learned to play my music without an instructor?"

"Yes Sir." she admitted then started, "_your_ music? You're Baron Di Divezi!"

"I am."

"I'm sorry Signor, I had no idea." she said, curtseying low, "I won't touch it again."

"You will if I have anything to do with it."

"Signor?"

"Such talent, such technique with no training! How could I let such talent get by me? I'll give you lessons immediately! Never have I seen such talent with no training! What's your name girl?"

"Morena Arzecci, Signor."

"Itolnian?"

"Yes."

"O ki Itolni libede?"

"Ki Colista."

For the first time he looked her over, realizing what she was wearing he realized what she was.

"You're a servant."

"Indentured, Signor."

"Mm," he said still looking her over. If it were anything but music, the Baron would have changed his mind, but music always came first with him, "When can you take lessons?"

"I have no money, Signor"

"When?"

"I have little time. At 10:30 I'm usually free."

"Come then. To my music room; you know it?"

"Yes."

She, Bianca, daughter of a penniless family was being offered the chance to take lessons from a master. The Viscount would have her head for it if he found out. Nevertheless, the usually cautious Bianca gave in to artistic and personal longing.

"Yes, Sir."


	2. Chapter 2

Okay, I haven't gotten any reviews (loud sobbing). Could someone just review and tell me if I"m doing something wrong? Someone please just review. The story can't be that bad.

"Slower, for goodness' sake, you aren't in a race." Ordered the Baron. Morena obediently slowed her playing.

"Dictation, you're forgetting dictation." She annunciated every note and finished the song.

"Excellent." he said solemnly.

It was two weeks that Morena had been taking lessons with him. He was a hard, stern man as a teacher, demanding perfection. But Morena was used to orders and hard work and didn't mind his strict way as most of his other students did. And she had come to believe that he was a good, kind man otherwise. He was also rather good-looking. Tall and dark with dark hair and clear blue eyes as deep as hers. Although he wasn't so with her, she sensed that he was a kind of man that loved to smile and enjoy life. Most of his songs were upbeat. He'd written only two in minor keys. In all, she liked him very much

As for Rodrigo, Baron Di Divezzi, he couldn't believe what he'd gotten himself into. After leaving Morena after their fist meeting he'd regretted his action. A Baron couldn't teach a servant! But upon listening to her again at her first lesson he couldn't refuse. Truly he'd never encountered such talent. Thus, for the sake of music _only_ he'd put aside social rank and taken her under his tutelage. As he saw it, she was fittingly respectful, speaking only when spoken to, obedient to every order, and patient with his stern teaching. At this, their eighth lesson, however much he resisted it, he found himself liking her. He sensed in her, beneath her respectful, rather melancholy exterior someone vivacious and interesting. Most true artists were. In addition, the two had found common ground in their love and talent for music.

Rodrigo Di Divezzi was one of the wealthiest men in Itolni. His ancestors had been wealthy merchants, gaining their title only because of their wealth. Two centuries later the family still had a knack for money-making. He'd grown up with everything he wanted. He was sent to University to study economics, but secretly took music courses as his parents did not approve of his enormous interest in the subject. He'd come to love it as he loved almost nothing else, but he could not disappoint his parents by becoming a musician. Five years ago when they died though, he decided to embrace his dream and today he was one of the most successful musicians on the continent. He was used to the finest in life, and having what he wanted. Now he reached a dilemma. The finest in life did not include the young woman before him. But he wanted to get to know the owner of such a marvelous gift. This day he decided to end the lesson early.

"Good Morena. Why don't you sit and rest for a while, you look tired."

"Thank you Signor, I am rather tired."

"You're doing well."

"Thank you, Signor." Taciturn. Was it stupidity? He doubted it. She grasped music theory better and faster than anyone he knew. Far better than he thought possible for a servant.

"How long have you worked here, Morena?'

"Six years, Signor."

"How old are you?" he asked, surprised.

"Eighteen."

Tenyears younger than he. He started at the thought of the young age at which she'd begun working. At twelve he was still cosseted by parents and nannies. Looking at her thin, tired body he wondered how she'd managed it."

"How many years have you to go?"

"Four."

Heaven help her.

"Will you go back to Colista when you're through?"

"Certainly, my mother's already saved up my boat fare." she said, smiling.

Rodrigo wondered at saving for a miserable third-class passage. He looked at her again. Her eyes seemed to be somewhere else, but he saw tears pooling in them.

"Are you happy here?" he asked sympathetically.

She thought to herself that she had to say yes to the Baron. But she looked at him and, for the first time yet, made eye contact. His eyes were full of sympathy. She hated to be pitied but inwardly she longed for something, anything, beside the harsh words and orders she usually met with.

"No."

"Why not?"

"For the love of heaven!" she cried impulsively, "I'm hungry and tired and overworked, and lonely. I've not seen my family in six years and my heart aches every day for missing them. I'm sick of being ordered about and treated as if I were dirt under people's feet."

She looked at him again but this time saw his tailored coat made from the finest material and remembered who she was talking to. She thought suddenly to herself that in the mind of someone like him she had no right to complain. At any rate, _he_ was the last person to whom she should complain. He'd taken her under himself and taught her, using up his own time, and had never told the Viscount.

At her strong words he too remembered who he was talking to. It was easy to forget. She had as much love for music as he did and during their lessons music was their mode of communication. They used it marvelously, in a way he never had before. No one he'd met seemed to understand it as she did and that was what made him want to know her. But when the music stopped they were forced to return to real life where she was inferior to him and it was unseemly for him to be speaking to her. At that thought he became angered with himself for being so open with a servant, albeit a bright, talented one.

Morena was angry with herself for being forward. She relished being taught by this man. She found she even relished being with him, sharing music. He'd been so good to her and she felt that they understood each other, through music. She treated him like she did any other master, but unlike any other, she liked him very much. Liked him even more now. For the first time in six years she'd received something besides roughness. He seemed as if he wanted to know her. She sent him a sidelong glance and his eyes seemed to be elsewhere. 'Ah,' she thought, 'he's remembered who he's talking to'. After that he dismissed her and she left. She assumed that he would never speak to her like that again. She felt disappointed at the thought. _He_ resolved not to speak to her like that again. Giving her lessons, after all, was bad enough. But both were wrong. Conversation came more naturally after this and each became more at ease with the other. Morena came to laugh much more often and he became less stern, though he remained relentless in his teaching. He remained her master, making it clear that he was her superior, and she remained a servant, constantly calling him "Signor". Yet, in spite of their respective roles they developed a friendship.


	3. Chapter 3

To those of you who reviewed I can't thank you enough! I really appreciated your feedback.

**Amber Stag:** You're review brightened my day.

**Charming Visions**: Thanks soooo much for your kind words. I've read A Simple Fairytale and I'm _really_ enjoying it. I'll work on the chapter thing. I think my approach is shorter chapters, but more of them.

**MQW**: You picked up on the name thing! I was hoping no one would notice. Originally I named my protagonist Bianca but changed it to Morena, which I think is a variation of Maureen, because I thought it sounded less aristocratic. When I went to change the name in my document I must have missed a few and not picked up on it when I edited it. Sorry about that!

Everyone please enjoy and review with your advice!

It was after Morena had been taking lessons for a month that the coldest days of the year came about. It was on a December morning about two weeks before Christmas that a discovery was made that would ultimately change the lives of two people with whom we are concerned. It was freezing cold that morning. Well under freezing in fact. But at quarter past five Morena was gathering her things to light the fires.

Meanwhile, the frigid temperature had awoken Signor Di Divezzi. It was rare that he woke during the night but he awoke this day before dawn truly concerned that his nose would chip off it was so cold. He looked at the empty grate and contemplated lighting the fire himself but decided against it at the thought of walking across the frozen room. Itolnians were not used to freezing temperatures. Instead he huddled further under his blankets, which, despite their number offered little defense against the freezing cold. As he was doing this he heard footsteps and offered a prayer of thanks that someone was coming to light the fire. Realizing that the servant would be embarrassed to find him already awake, he shut his eyes and pretended to be asleep. But as the footsteps entered his chamber he thought they sounded familiar and opened his eyes a crack. He was surprised to see the figure of Morena kneeling in front of the grate. In reflection he couldn't say why he was surprised since he knew she cleaned his rooms. As he looked closer and his eyes became adjusted to the darkness he saw that her only protection against the frigid temperature was a thin shawl and he thought he could actually see her shivering. Making not a sound so as not to frighten her, he braced himself and got out of bed, reached for his cloak nearby, walked to her and silently draped it over her. She jumped up immediately and turned around.

"Signor," she said, "I apologize. I woke you up. And it being so cold. Your cloak-"

"Think nothing of it Morena. It's early and it's cold. Sit by the fire for a few minutes to warm up."

"I can't Signor I've other fires to light."

"Just for a moment to get warm."

"You'll be cold without your cloak."

"I'll wear a blanket." he said pulling one off the bed and gesturing to a soft, comfortable chair near the fire which Bianca, in her tired, cold, state, could not resist. The Baron seated himself opposite to herself as she soaked in warmth.

"Thank you Signor."

"Not at all Morena."

After a pause he continued, "I wish you could have seen the Viscountess at supper last night. You would have laughed. She's given up on subtle encouragement and has given full vent to trying to make me marry her daughter."

Morena smiled.

"Why is she so bent on getting her daughter married to you?"

"I'm a wealthy man, Morena. Her daughter is an heiress. It's keeping money in the family." he smiled at her, "I don't suppose you'd understand."

Morena smiled back but her stomach turned inside. Although they'd become very good friends, the Baron would occasionally make a remark that made her feel worthless and ignorant.

"Have you received any letters from your family?" he asked

"Yes, Signor. My mother and brother wrote. The one closest to my age, Roberto, has just turned 17. He told me that he wants a song written by me for his birthday."

"You should write something. It would be good practice."

"I've tried, Signor. I'm no good at writing."

"You understand written pieces well enough."

"That's different. Many people can read language but not write it."

"You can interpret them though; find out what the composer was trying to say."

"I can't help it. I speak music better than I speak Itolnian or Fraznian and I understand yours best."

"Do you?" he said, amused."

"Certainly, usually I can only make general interpretations of a piece of music. But I can dissect yours."

"Really. Tell me about 'Mice refrezne cora.'"

"It's in a minor key, you wrote it just after your parents died and you were struggling, trying to decide whether to embrace your dream or follow their wishes. It starts of melancholy then becomes frenzied then suddenly calm when you make you're decision."

"How did you know that?" he said, truly impressed.

"I've come to know you a bit, Signor. That helps."

"What of 'Ma dulca carasa?"

She smiled.

"You were in love."

He frowned.

"How do you know that?"

"I simply do, Signor. Forgive me but, what was her name?"

He looked at her for a minute then decided to confess. It was over anyway.

"Marianinna, Duchess of Natere. We met at a ball before my parents died. I was smitten, I would have married her in a heartbeat, but she was only flirting. She even managed to find someone wealthier than I to marry. I believe she's recently given birth to a male heir."

"I'm sorry."

"It was ages ago. I've forgotten it, although it killed me at the time. I was younger, hardly older than you."

"You make me seem like a child, Signor."

He looked at her. Saw her rough, work-worn hands, her deep eyes which looked older than her eighteen years and said "You are no child, Morena."

They were silent for a moment. Then Morena said,"This reminds me of a song I used to sing at Christmastime when I was younger."

"_When gathered round the fire, upon a fearsome winter's night,_"the Baron sang.

"You know it, Signor?" she said surprised.

"We _are_ of the same fatherland are we not?"

"I did not think it was sung by people like you." she said smiling.

"Music is-"

"Universal. You've taught me well Signor," and they both continued, "_a knock came sounding at the door of a Bethlehem man._" Then Rodrigo stopped, stunned and Bianca continued, "'_can I not seek shelter in your home from the fierce, cold wind tonight-"_she stopped, realizing that she was singing alone.

"Please don't stop, you have such a lovely voice." The man meant what he said.

"Not at all Signor."

"But you do. Have you had training?"

"Of course not, Signor."

"Morenaa, it's possible that you sing even better than you play the violin. I'll have to start giving you voice lessons. I can't allow such talent to get by me."

"Not at all Signor." she said blushing.

"Morena, give yourself some credit and listen to yourself. A voice like yours is a gift. We start tomorrow."

His enthusiasm embarrassed her.

"As you wish Signor. But now I have work to do. Thank you for the use of your cloak."

"Not at all." as he reached for his cloak their hands met. She felt the smoothness of his as he felt the roughness of hers. He watched her leave as she huddled into her scant shawl. As he crawled back into bed he wondered why it was that a girl-woman-so rich in talent, who seemed to constantly come up with more of it, was so monetarily poor. As he drifted off to sleep, this thought bothering him, an idea crept into his mind.


	4. Chapter 4

Once again thank you soooooo much to all reviewers. Before I start the next chapter, let me clear up the name of my protagonist. It's Morena. But originally, before I posted the story, it was Bianca. When I decided changed the name on my document I accidentally missed a few Biancas and didn't change them. Sorry about all the confusion. It was really unprofessional to let it get by me. Bear with me and enjoy the next chapter.

Two months later we find Morena and the Baron in the music room. The violin was almost forgotten. It had been replaced by something far more beautiful: Morena's voice. As talented as she was at violin it was nothing compared to her voice. The Baron, who had already composed several operas, had yet to encounter a voice like hers. He could have listened to her for eternity.

It was afternoon on one of Morena's rare half-days off. Winter sunlight poured into the room illuminating her face light a spotlight on a stage. She smiled as she sang 'Ma mora' an aria from the opera the Baron was currently composing. He'd found it convenient for him to try out his soprano songs with her voice as well as it being good practice for her. Over the last two months, she'd come to realize that she had talent. She only wondered what she would ever do with it. Perhaps when her servitude was over and she went back home she could make come extra money by giving small concerts. That was, if she didn't have to go back into service. At any rate, the knowledge made her happy, and the knowledge that the Baron thought she sang beautifully made her happier.

"How was that Signor?" she asked when she finished.

"Superb. Careful of your diction around the eighth measure though, you tend to pronounce it with a Fraznian accent."

"I've been speaking the language too long, I apologize."

"Not at all. What do you think of the song."

"It's lovely. Divine."

"What can you tell me about it? Can you dissect it?"

She thought for a moment. "You don't like the character singing it, Catarina, do you?"

"Not at all, she's pompous and vain and melodramatic."

"Interesting, the way you write her makes me think of Bianca."

"No coincidence there." he smiled. So did she.

"You seem to have a much greater liking for her handmaiden. I liked her aria better."

The Baron made no reply.

"Would you like me to sing another, Signor?" she asked.

"I would but I must meet with your master. While I'm gone though, practice this music on the violin. It's good ear training." he said handing her the violin and a sheet of music.

"Of course, Signor."

As he left she began to practice. She didn't get far though, when she felt an unfriendly hand on her shoulder, turning her around. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw Gerard, a footman.

"What do you think you're doing?" he barked. Gerard was an upper servant, superior in practice if not reality to Morena. He was also closer to the Viscount which meant a fairly frequent bonus for extra services done. Morena's stomach turned at that thought.

"You know it's against rules to touch visitor's things. You could have broken that!"

"I-I" her heart pounded, drowning out all thought as she searched for an explanation.

"The master's going to be furious. You know how worked up he can get when he's disobeyed." she did. And she new the profit Gerard made off of it.

"Gerard please don't tell him. I'll do anything only please don't tell him." she begged to no avail. He grabbed her arm roughly and dragged her across the manor and many curious eyes to the Viscount's rooms.

How stupid she had been, she thought to herself. How could she have agreed to take lessons from the Baron?

The Baron!

The thought of him made her feel worse. He was with the Viscount. The Viscount would loose his temper and he would do it in front of the Baron.

They arrived at the Viscount's door.

"Wait here and don't think of moving." Gerard said as he went inside to explain the situation to the Viscount and get him sufficiently angered. Of course she thought of leaving but what good would it do her? She had no money and the Viscount had the law on his side. She would be caught and the Viscount would be even angrier.

Gerard came back out and grabbing her by the wrist shoved her into the room so forcefully she fell on her hands and knees in front of the Viscount.

"Thank you Gerard, you may leave." he said from over her, clearly suppressing anger.

"Get up." he ordered harshly. She did so, avoiding looking at the Baron who was seated to her left, "Gerard claims you were handling the Baron's expensive instruments thus disobeying my orders and damaging my reputation. Is this true?"

She could have defended herself and told him of the lessons. But for one thing he probably wouldn't believe her, for another when the Baron had begun giving her voice lessons he had made her promise that she would say nothing while he thought something out, which of course she wouldn't have dared to. And there was little she wouldn't have done for the Baron.

"Yes, Sir."

His hand came down hard across her face, bringing tears to her eyes.

"And your reason for disobeying me?" he shouted.

Through stinging pain she could only say, "None, my Lord."

He raised his hand again to give vent to his anger and Morena braced herself but he was interupted.

"For goodness' sake Eugene calm yourself!" It was the Baron. Morena closed her eyes as if it would make him go away.

"This is a domestic matter, Rodrigo."

"Eugene, if you'll blame anyone blame me.'

"What?"

"Listen Eugene, when I first came here I found this girl playing my violin in my room. I normally would have been angered but she had talent! She'd never had a lesson in her life but she played like a virtuoso. So I gave her violin and music theory instruction. Two months ago I discovered that she could sing so I began to give her vocal instruction. She can sing better than anyone I've ever heard before. I was going to ask you today to allow her to accompany me when I left so that she can sing in the Opera at Parisinnia."

"Rodrigo what possessed you? She's not going anywhere!" he was incredulous.

"Just listen to her. Morena, sing 'Ma Mora'"

She hesitated. He was asking her to sing in front of someone other than himself. He infuriated master for that matter. But then, there was little she wouldn't have done for him. He'd made her smile again. So she sang. And as she sang she lost her inhibitions. She was transported in her mind out of that house to the finest opera on the continent.

"She isn't bad." admitted the Viscount, who, in his angry state apparently couldn't appreciate anything, but that doesn't change that fact that she's my servant and she disobeyed me."

"How can you bypass such talent?"

"Even if I did no Opera would hire the daughter of a penniless convict who died in prison."

Morena shut her eyes again. Don't tell him that, she begged the Viscount silently. She knew what the Baron must be thinking and she was right.

In Itolni, if, under certain conditions, a convict died before he'd finished his sentence his eldest child would finish it in indentured servitude. But the family became outcasts of society. Their misfortune was considered a sign of God's displeasure. _That_ is why she's here, the Baron thought to himself. He became angry at the thought. How dare she not tell him!

"She left that part out didn't she Roberto?" the Viscount said, "Get out Morena."

She curtsied and left, feeling horrible. She could see what would happen. The Baron would believe she'd lied to him. He would be angry-furious with her which was something she couldn't bear. He might refuse even to see her again. She didn't know how she could live like that.


	5. Chapter 5

I am soooooo sorry I've taken so long to update but I have literally no free time with school. I'm going insane. Pleeeeease forgive me and continue to review. A few shout-outs before the next chapter:

**mnwugn86**: I hear you. I've always struggled with the things you're talking about and I'm trying really hard to fix them. I really apreciate your constructive crticism.

**StephMarie**:Thanks alot, especially for telling me about the review setting; I didn't even realize it.

**sealednectar**: You didn't hurt my feelings and I really appreciate your constructive criticism; I'll do my best. Please continue to read and give me suggestions.

**Lisa**: Thank you soo much and I'm sooooooo sorry.

_Everyone please enjoy and REVIEW!_

The next day Morena was in his room. She'd been given mountains of extra work to do and was struggling to get it all done. She was making his bed with her back to the door when she heard his footsteps in the hall and stop in the door. Expecting him to be angry, she turned and curtsied.

"Morena." he said coldly.

"Signor," she answered.

"Why didn't you tell me your father was a convict.?" He asked sharply.

"It never came up, Signor." she answered emotionlessly, her eyes lowered respectfully

"But you were content to lie to me, after all I'd done for you."

"Never, Signor."she looked at him.

"You never told me you came here to finish your father's sentence."

"That's not why I am here."

"So the Viscount is lying?"

"The Viscount never said that's why I came here, Signor." four months ago she wouldn't have dared to contradict him, "he only implied it."

"All right then, what difference does it make?"

"You believe what the Viscount didn't even say then?"

He stared coldly at her. He was angry. This girl had gotten him to like her, like her very much. He'd come to look on her as a friend, to enjoy spending time with her, casting aside social seemliness. And to pay him back she'd lied to him with silence. He hated being made a fool of, and he hated being wrong in his judgement.

"Would you care to hear what I have to say about it Signor?"

How dare she speak to him so insolently after lying to him?

"After all, Signor, it's only fair."

This was what happened when you got close to the lower classes. They started talking about fairness. He should, he would, order her out. He looked at her. Her eyes were angry but in them he saw tears. They moved him.

"Speak and be brief then."

"When I was not quite ten my father was injured by a fall. He lost his job at the docks and no one would hire a cripple. My mother tried to support us by taking in mending but it wasn't enough to feed the seven of us. Our savings disappeared rapidly. In a year we were near starving. By that time my father could no longer stand doing nothing. So one night he broke into a bakery to steal some bread. But he awoke the baker who, assuming my father was armed, carried a crowbar with him. My father panicked, threw something at him that knocked him unconscious and was charged with armed robber and attempted murder. He was sentenced to five years in prison. That winter was bitterly cold. My father contracted pneumonia and died only a week before we received a pardon. That's why I wasn't forced into service. After my father's death things got worse for us. So when the Viscount offered to take me as an indentured servant I agreed so that I could save my family. Now my mother owns a Milliner's shop and my family- what's left of it-eats every day. My father was a good man. God didn't punish him for trying to save his family."

Reviewing painful memories made the tears in Morena's eyes spill over. The Baron was not moved this time.

"You want to win me over with a sob story."

Her eyes met his with anger, but more so, hurt. He couldn't keep her stare. After a moment she got her things to go. But before she left she said,

"You choose to believe the Viscount over me because his money and title and nice clothes make him seem more trustworthy. But you have no reason to mistrust me, none! Strange as it was, I was your friend. That is why I dare to speak so impertinently. You feel that I've betrayed you, but it is you who have betrayed me! I've felt pain the like of which you couldn't imagine. The last time I saw my father he was in chains and couldn't meet my eyes and you think I try to appease you with a false story! Signor, you've hurt me more than you can know."

With that she left.

The Baron was not unmoved. That night he couldn't sleep. Morena's face kept appearing in front of him in every expression he'd seen it make. Without realizing it he'd memorized every feature of her face, every movement it made and mannerism it utilized. The expression that kept haunting him that night was the one he'd seen that day so full of hurt, hurt he'd caused. The next morning, tortured by his conscience and lack of sleep he wrote a letter to an acquaintance of his who worked in the legal department in Itolni.

_The existence has come to my attention of the Arzecci family of Colista. The head of this family was imprisoned for armed robbery and attempted murder some seven years ago. I wish to know the following. Firstly, is this man dead? Second, did he ever receive a pardon and if so when. Third, what has become of this man's eldest daughter? The greatest haste in necessary in your reply. _

The next morning the Baron delayed his departure giving him enough time to receive a reply. In two weeks it came.

_Roberto Arzecci, Sr. Was arrested on the 4th day of the 1st month of the 18th year of the reign of King Imperus for breaking and entering, armed robbery, and attempted murder. He died in prison of complications of pneumonia on the 11th day of the first month of the 19th year of the reign of our king. A week later he received a pardon clearing him from blame due to the efforts of his wife and eldest daughter who was not yet a teenager at the time, who had managed to enlist the help of the baker whose shop was robbed and who pressed the charges. His eldest daughter, Morena Elisa Arzecci, is an indentured servant of the Viscount of Marsais in Fraznia._ _I believe that her family are tenants of yours._

What a fool he was! How could he have forgotten? He had helped get the pardon and persuaded the baker. He was 20 at the time, but, having reviewed the situation felt that the Arzeccis were in the right. He'd felt awful for months after the poor man had died. Then he'd simply forgotten. And his forgetfulness might have cost him the best voice he'd ever heard, and best friendship he'd ever had. What a fool he was! What could he do now? He'd thrown everything away for good. But no, not yet. He could swallow his pride and apologize to her. Apologize to a servant! No, he thought again, not a servant, a dear friend whom he had wronged. He rang for his valet.

"Send Morena Arzecci here."

Morena pushed back a strand of hair that had come loose. The heat and humidity of the ironing room always made her uncomfortable and edgy. The mountain of clothes in front of her didn't help her disposition. For the last two weeks worked had been piled onto her as if there were no other servants to help. It was seen to that she had no time for music lessons. She missed them with all that was in her. She'd become accustomed to waking up and having them to look forward to. And, as much as she hated to admit it now, she'd come to look forward to seeing the Baron. He'd come to overlook their social differences and embrace a friendship. He'd put aside rank, or so she thought. She realized now what a fool she was to think so; what a fool she was to befriend him. She'd learned her lesson and her place and would remain in it from now on, however much she missed her music. She'd already destroyed her violin so no one would find it.

As she picked up another iron from the stove and put down the one she had been using someone came into the room, his valet Peder.

"The Baron wants to see you Morena."

She stared at him. Peder was a good man but her resentment toward his master, she realized now, had extended toward him in the past weeks. That man who now wanted to see her incase he hadn't caused her enough trouble.

"What for? I'm drowning in work." she asked curtly

"I don't know I'm only the messenger."

She turned back to ironing.

"Morena, be reasonable. I understand your anger but don't make things worse by not obeying him."

Obeying him. The words made her stop what she was doing. Why should she have to obey him? He'd betrayed her; her friendship. Why should she be at his beck and call? What could he want with her now? She smelled something burning. She looked down as Peder pointed her attention to the burnt garment. Instinctively she put the iron back on the stove but it was too late, the shirt was ruined. Despite the thought she smiled ironically as she noticed it was one of his shirts, the one he'd worn the first time they'd met.

"I'm coming" she said and he led her to his room. As tempted as she was to bring the shirt with her to throw at him and his pride her better sense won out. Her knock at the door was answered with a "come in" before it was finished. She took a deep breath to calm the anger rising to her lips and entered. Respectfully she curtsied and murmured:

"Signor."

"Morena." he stood.

Anger rose within her again at the sight of him mocking her. She longed to voice it but kept her mouth closed and her eyes respectfully lowered, waiting for him to speak. He didn't

"Was there something you wanted of me, Signor?"

"Morena" he said again.

Hurry, up, I have work to do, she thought. After another pause she glanced up and realized he was nervous.

"Morena, I-I have something to tell you."

"Signor?" she said keeping her eyes lowered. She was confused now at his conscientous posture. For the first time she noticed that the atmosphere was tense and a...

"For goodness sake Morena look at me." She did so, obeying the order instinctively. The rest he said very quickly,

"Morena, I know what you must think of me. That I betrayed you, our friendship, that I'm an arrogant courtier not worthy of my title, not worthy to be the one of us with the manor and fine clothes. I've no reason to say otherwise. You're right. I don't deserve any of it and I did needlessly betray our friendship based on fancy alone. I wrote to Itolni and realized you were telling the truth. In retrospect I'm sure I've known all along but I couldn't admit it. I was still rooted in the beliefs I'd been brought up on; I was not, am not used to associating with the servant classes and so I believed who I was comfortable with believing. But I had no reason to and every reason to believe you. I know nothing of the Viscomt, but I had come to know you, and I should have known you wouldn't lie to me. Morena," he stopped and bowed, "I am asking you to forgive me. I was wrong and I was a fool. Forgive me."

She could say nothing, she was too confused. Was he mocking her, making a story to tell his friends so they could all laugh over it? Or was he serious? If he were, perhaps he was not so despicable as she thought him. Perhaps he was, after all, the good, kind man she'd thought him to be only a brief fortnight ago. Thinking of the months they'd spent coming to know each other she so wanted him to be serious, but she would not be made a mockery of.

"Do you jest, Signor?"

He started, "Morena, it took every ounce of courage and energy I had to say what I just said. How can you think...? But you have a right to doubt me, after all. Morena, I swear on the grave of my mother and father that I sincerely meant what I just said. I would never make a mockery of you. I had an epiphany after I received a letter from Itolni today which convinced me of your innocence. The last of my social biases melted. The ones that count anyway. I sincerely ask your forgiveness."

He was serious. She knew him. She wanted to forgive him but at the same time she wanted to make him feel the way she had the past two weeks. She stopped her thoughts. Feel how? What has bothered me so much? She asked herself. Well, the extra work, and abandoning music. No, she realized, not just that, she missed him most of all. She'd come to care for this man more than she'd realized.

"You have it Signor, "she said, but added, "you've hurt me a great deal these past weeks and you've had no call to."

"I know Morena, I realize that now. Thank you."

"Music lessons can't-"

"Continue; I know. But I have a plan. I need to make some finalizations, but I'll tell you soon. I'll make my betrayal up to you Morena."

Finally she smiled, he looked so earnest, all she remembered liking in him came back to her now twofold. He smiled at her too, relieved. They looked at each other and laughed at the tension in the room, shattering it.

"I need to go, Signor. I do have castles full of work to do."

"You'll come here tomorrow. We can talk more."

"Of course. I'll be here to clean your apartments at the usual time."

"Good." He said meaning it. He realized how much he wanted to see her. He did something then that surprised him as much as her then. He stepped forward, picked up her hand and swiftly laid his lips on it. He straightened and only then did he realize what he'd done. He'd been overwhelmed by the desire to be near to her. It had driven him to an impulse. He wasn't usually impulsive. He looked at her. She was no longer smiling but her eyes were slightly wider than normal.

"Good day, Signor." She said stressing the last word, and left.

He sighed. She needed to remind of who he was. He hadn't intended to do what he'd done. He couldn't believe he had now. "She's a servant!" he said to himself for the hundredth time. But suddenly, after what had happened, after what he'd learned in the past hour, it didn't seem to matter anymore.


	6. Chapter 6

Hello everone! Once again, sorry for the update wait. This chapter was difficult to write and I'm afraid it may be disappointing. Please read and tell me what you think anyway. I'll try to do better next time. I'm sure you all know what it's like to have trouble writing a chapter. Please enjoy!

Amber Stag: I'm glad you're continuing to read and enjoy, and most importantly review my story

Pabo: Thanks alot for the constructive criticims. The social class thing isn't quite done with yet. I know what you mean, I'm kind of sick of reading characters dead set against social class. Once in a while someone can pull it off but overall it's an exhausted literary idea and unrealistic; we're all a little socially biased even ifwe hate to admit it.

StephMarie: Thanks! That chapter was fun to write. Glad you liked it.

sealednectar: I'mso glad you're enjoying this story. Your review was so encouraging I almost cried. Seriously! I'll try to keep it entertaining, but like I said this chapter was for some reason difficult to write....

She met him in his rooms the next day and they spoke together in Itolnian as she worked, the result of which was that she took twice as long as she needed to. Add that to the mountains of work she'd been given lately and it would be a long time before she had any sleep, but to her it was worth it. It was wonderful talking to him again. About music, Itolni, their homes and childhoods, everything. He'd told her, much to her dismay, that he was leaving in two weeks for Parissinia where his latest Opera was going into production. She didn't know how she would bear the next four years without him. For the past six years she'd been lonely and timid, the only cause for living, her family, was miles away in another country. The Baron had brought some of the old Morena back, the Morena she was before her father died. He had been like a flash of benign, soothing lightning. Knowing him was exciting and calming and wonderful all at the same time. But while he occupied her thoughts almost constantly, while the only part of her life she looked forward to were letters from her family and talking to him, he had a life to live full of music and color and people. He surely had more reasons for living than could be counted. Why would he hesitate to leave when he had confided that he could no longer tolerate the his greedy cousin the Viscomte orthe Viscomtesstrying now to force him to marry her daughter. Until he left she would value every second of every minute she could be with him. Now, though, as she placed another log onto the fire, she did have to go if she was going to sleep at all that night, and told the Baron so.

"Wait just a minute more Morena," he said, extending a hand to help her up, "there's something else I wanted to talk to you about."

"Yes?"

But his eyes were fixed on her hand. She pulled it away, embarrassed. She'd been working even harder lately. The Viscomte insisted on having a farewell dinner for the Baron and there was extra work that went into that. She was overworked and her hands showed it.

"You look tired Morena." he realized for the first time.

"I am rather. We've been preparing for your farewell banquet. The house will be beautiful when we're finished. The Viscomtess will be in her element."

The exchanged smiles. They both knew how the Viscomtess loved entertaining large parties, being the center of attention as servants rushed everywhere to prepare, and generally made a fool of herself dancing.

"Ah yes, that. I asked the Viscomte not to have one. I want nothing more than to get out from under his roof as soon as possible and not be delayed by a party. You know how I feel about that. But we must keep up appearances. If it people were to find out that the Vicomte and I have turned into enemies while I've been here it would look horrible for both of us." He was surprised he still cared about such things after becoming a professional musician and befriending a servant, but old habits do die hard.

"I'll miss you when you're gone Signor." she said impulsively.

"You don't need to." he returned.

"Signor?" she asked puzzled. What was he getting at?

"That's what I want to ask you. I know you're not happy here. When I first met you I didn't think you even knew how to smile. Then music reminded you. And I've never met anyone with such natural talent for the art. It would be a crime for that talent to go unnoticed forever. I was serious when I told the Viscomte that you should sing at the Opera in Parissinia. You could start off in a small role. Within a year you would be the star of the Opera. I want you to come with me." He smiled and his eyes lit up expectantly, knowing what she would say.

She didn't know _what _to say. His request was like cold water placed just outside of her grasp on the hottest day of an Itolnian summer. She wanted nothing more in the world. Nothing. She'd come to love music more than she thought she could ever love anything but her family. To do it professionally was her dream now. But he knew she had four more years to go. She'd been paid for legally. And the consequences of running away from indentured servitude were not ones she wanted to face.

"You know I'm bound here for another four years." was what she finally answered.

"Let that be the least of your worries. I know how to handle that."

"He paid legally–"

"I told you, think nothing of it."

"Signor, if you can pull of getting the Viscomte to let me go you know what my answer is. I hate this place and I love music. I've dreamt of singing professionally lately. If you could do it for me there would be no one happier on earth."

He smiled broadly, "good. I'll talk to the Viscomte today."

"I don't know how you'll convince him. You know he's a stubborn man. I won't get my hopes up."

He smiled even more broadly, he knew she would,"you can start packing."

His excitement was contagious. She smiled back just as broadly but decided it was inappropriate to tell him that she had nothing to pack.

"You can't have expected me to agree Roderigo," the Viscomte said haughtily, "you want to _buy_ Morena from me! The idea is laughable."

"I don't see why." The Baron said drily.

"I have no intention of selling her. She's a hard worker and I paid a good price for her. I intend to get what I paid for."

The Baron eyed him icily. He'd said the same thing about the carriage horse he'd just bought. The Baron had entertained the hope that he could convince the Viscomte to let Morena come with him for the sake of art. It was naive to hope so. He'd hoped then that he would be able to bargain with his despicable cousin to make what he had to do less degrading. He saw now that there was no such possibility. The man would make a profit off of another human. Resigned, he took a piece of paper on the desk that was between him and his cousin, jotted a figure on it, and passed it across te desk. The Viscomte's eyes widened. It was far more than what he paid. Far more, he thought to himself, than what she was worth. He looked up at the Baron who eyed him steadily.

"You're a fool." was all he said then unlocked a box at the other end of the room, removed a slip of paper, and wrote on it. He then handed it to the Baron. "According to this document she is yours at midnight of a fortnight from today. The day you leave." The Viscote said, emphasizing the last word. His cousin had turned his house upside down first with this servant and by refusing to consider a marriage to his daughter as had been expected for years. He counted the days until he would leave.

The Baron tookthe documentagreeably. "Much obliged." he said and left. He felt horrible at having purchased a fellow human like an animal. Especially Morena.But the benefits of his action far outweighed, what he considered at least, the unspeakable nature of the act. Her talent would not be wasted, he intended to give her her freedom and tear up the accursed document in his hand soon, he would make her happy. What was most exciting, she would be coming with him. He would have missed her if he had to leave without her.He still didn't understand how he could feel such...affinity, friendliness for a servant but hedecided to give up trying.He smiled from excitement and anticipation.

She wept the next day when he told her that she was coming with him. He wouldn't tell her that he'd paid money for her until later, when he would free her. For now she was overcome with joy that she was leaving and that she would sing at one of the finest Operas in the world. Through tears she tried to thank him, tried to communicate her joyfulness, her gratitude, her excitement. Unable to do anything else, and overcome by emotion, she reached out and embraced him. Both were taken aback when they realized what she'd done, but neither was willing to break away.


	7. Chapter 7

MERRY CHRISTMAS! (or you seasonal equivalent)

_ HI everyone. I can't apologize enough for taking so long to update. I'll try my best to make it up to you. This chapter is a filler though so don't expect too much. Special thanks so all my reviewers. I love you all( loud, dramatic sobbing). So enjoy, (and reviewing never hurts), and God Bless._

**sophianwin**: Sorry about those errors. "Hands" was meant to be singular. My typing skills are minimal, although I know that's no excuse. Thank you so much for your review and I'll read over my chapters more carefully from now on.

**Tiger Lily21**: Thank you so much! I'm so glad your enjoying this story. You're right about it being like My Fair Lady. I didn't eve realize it. I LOVE that play so my subconcious probably used it to inspire me. Enjoy!

**sealednectar, Amber Stag, and Rowenhood**: Thank you all so much for reviewing and saying nice things about my story (big, sweet, smile). I'm sooooo sorry It's taken so long to update, but school takes over my life. I'm trying to write as many chapters as I can over break so I can just post them when I'm in school. I hope you enjoy this one!

By the way, I know where I'm going with this story but if any readers have any ideas let me know. If I should decide to use any or am inspired by any, rest assured I will give you credit.

It was the longest fortnight of Morena's life. The sole part of it, besides the very end, that Morena would remember was writing to her mother. Not once in one of her letters to her mother had she so much as alluded to the Baron. Now she had to explain that she, an eighteen year old indentured servant without a penny to her name, was leaving for a place she did not know with a very wealthy young bachelor. The thought of this hardly gave her pause. She knew the Baron. He was committed to his art alone. She knew he could not think of intimacy in any way with anything that would distract him from his passion and calling. So she praised the Baron's virtues to her mother and reminded her what an opportunity it would be in so many ways. And it really would be. To her brother Roberto, the sibling to whom she was closest, she wrote a different letter. He knew all about the Baron but kept it a secret from their mother. He would be happy for her. Two years ago, after mother's millinery practice was bringing in an income, he'd been apprenticed to the master of the western docks, a very important man in the port town of Colista, and an old friend of their fathers who'd been eager to help their family. Roberto's future was assured and for that Morena was grateful. One less care to weigh on her. Now that she would be getting a paying job Morena would be able to help her mother with the other three children Maria, Antonio, and little Lucia. Little Lucia, Morena reflected, would hardly be little anymore. She wouldn't recognize her own sister if she was face to face with her.

The final day at the manor arrived. Morena rose early to help prepare for the banquet that evening. There were sauces to make, dough to roll, places to set. It would be a busy day. She'd been ordered to leave the house by midnight, why she didn't know, but she was eager to get out.

That day, busy in the kitchen, she listened to the cook and kitchen maids talk rapidly in their strange, thick, lower-class Fraznian accents that she still had trouble understanding. She remembered when she'd first come to the manor. As a child she'd spent most of her time at the docks. She'd loved the excitement and bustle, she'd delighted in seeing the pretty, exotic things that were unloaded from ships that had sailed from all corners of the earth, and a child could always earn a few pennies sweeping up the cargo space in a recently unloaded ship, or unloading some of the lighter items. In this atmosphere with her remarkably quick ear she was conversational in four languages besides Itolnian including Fraznian before she was 10. However, in a strange land, far from her family and everything familiar, still grieving over the loss of her beloved father, she lacked the confidence to speak the language to anyone else and feared the ridicule aimed at her when she did because of her Itolnian accent which made her Fraznian sound like the dignified dialect spoken by the upper-classes. So, the rest of the servants took her for either stupid or arrogant or both and had little to do with the quiet foreigner. She'd been quite lonely until she discovered the music concerts. And then that happy day when the musician forgot his violin and she claimed it. Finally, the day she'd met the Baron and her entire life was changed.

"My goodness you're thoughtful today!" Morena thought to herself, adding some sprigs of rosemary to the soup, "and not about the usual things you're thoughtful about."

For she rarely dwelt on her family or her past in Itolni. It was too painful. Lately her thoughts always dwelt on the Baron, that is to say, they dwelt on music and the Opera she would be singing at, thoughts it was impossible to exclude the Baron from. "Just a few more hours," she kept telling herself, "just a few."

At midnight she dragged her tiny trunk with her belongings to the stable to wait. It was raining and cold. At first her anticipation and excitement kept her warm but as the hours went on and the feast didn't end, and there was no sign of even the Baron's coachmen or manservant to keep her company she wanted to scream with impatience. She would have taken her violin out to play but the moisture in the air was bad for it. She had it wrapped in some old cloth to protect it and placed it in the very middle of her trunk to protect it from the bumpy carriage.

It was two in the morning when the Baron's servants arrived, bearing the news that it would be at least another hour.

That night Rodrigo de dealt with his own impatience. His feast began at eight. He was seated at the place of honor with the Viscomte's daughter Bianca to his right. Her mother, still hoping for an engagement, had made sure of it. Bianca was a haughty girl, frightened by her mother's high hopes and expectations into near absolute silence. She had been educated as befitted her rank (if she had been born a boy she would have been third in line for the throne after only the Crown prince) but produced little original thought. Despite the culture she'd been exposed to she was a stereotype of the young noblewoman. The two of them made polite conversation. She was beautiful, Rodrigo couldn't help but note. Her perfectly golden hair was done up fashionably, her eyes were deep blue in color, her lips an enchanting red. Her figure was stylishly crafted thanks to the dictates of a corset. Her skin had a healthy tint and charming flush to it. However, he couldn't help comparing her to another female he knew. Morena's rich brown hair suited her face better than Bianca's golden locks, her green eyes were just as lovely as, and fathoms deeper than Bianca's blue ones, she was pale though, he knew, from lack of sleep and overwork indoors, and excessively slim from the same. He smiled thinking of her, of her life he was about to change. "For music's sake." he reminded himself. "For her's." another part of him returned.

Now if only he could escape from this ridiculous celebration.

He snuck away at quarter past three. He was greeted in the stables by the polite bows of his two servants and the beaming face of Morena.

"Kind of you to be so prompt Signor." she tried to tease but she was to excited to do so effectively.

"I couldn't get away." he answered truthfully. For the past two hours each time he'd tried he'd been kidnaped by the Vicomtess to dance with her daughter again, "but we need to make up for lost time," he continued seriously, "it's a long way." His coachmen opened the carriage door for him and Petar began to help Morena onto the driver's bench.

"Morena," he corrected, "come in the carriage with me, we have much to discuss."

Petar helped her down but she noticed he looked at her strangely as he did so. She stepped into the coach and a minute later they were underway. Morena looked out of the window as her hell on earth shrank until at long last it disappeared from view. As soon as it did Morena leaned back and exhaled deeply. Only then did she realize that she was seated on rich, soft blue velvet, and that the Baron had lain a blanket across her lap. She realized she was cold and pulled it up around her. She sighed again, contentedly.

"Tired Morena?" the baron asked finally

"Not in the least" she replied, "I haven't felt like this in years. I'm much to happy and excited to be sleepy."

He smiled. She was glowing with happiness. Her eyes glistened not with tears as he had seen them do before but with pure, emanating joy. How she must have hated that place, he thought to himself.

"You ought to sleep. We'll get there by evening but we'll need to be up early to start working. I hope you remember your music theory."

"Every bit of it. I've been humming intervals to myself constantly lately."

"Good. I've written to my assistant about you."

"You have an assistant? You never mentioned him to me."

"Of course. His name is Signor Antonio De Dremas. He manages everything that needs managing in my career. We met at university. His great-great-grandfather had been the chief court musician. He was given a counthood. His family are still musicians but not very successful ones and they've hardly any money. They're the classic impoverished nobles. He was sent to University to study music, having to pick of some odd-jobs secretly to pay for it. He's no good at music and would rather have studied anything else. So we switched. I took his music classes and he took my economics classes. We hoodwinked our parents for four years." He laughed heartily. "It wasn't until after poor Antonio graduated and his family discovered he didn't know the difference between a major and minor chord that his found out. They wrote to my parents to tell them about our deception but," he stopped smiling and was suddenly solemn, "the letter never was able to find them. They'd started out on their trip around the continent right after I came back from school. Their ship ran into a gale a year later and didn't make it out."

"I'm sorry." Morena said gently and sincerely. He'd never told her this

"I hardly felt anything. I almost didn't know them. I was raised by a nanny and a tutor. That's been the trade-off in my life. Vaults of money and acres of land but no intimacy. You're fortunate Morena. At least you have memories of your father. For the rest of my life I'll regret that I don't."

Morena sought for something comforting to say, but could only utter, "I'm very sorry." with perfect sincerity.

"But on to happier things," he continued gaily, "are you looking forward to your musical career?"

"M musical career," she repeated, "I don't think it can really happen. Not to me."

"But it will happen," he countered happily, "very shortly. A year from now you'll be the lead in _Il pulchreza_."

"_Il pulchreza_!" she exclaimed, "you want me to be Marina?"

"I wrote the part for you."

It was the opera he was still working on, the arias of which he'd taught her to sing

"It will cause a stir I promise you." he said.

"What is Parissinia like?" she asked.

"Large, busy, crowded in some parts. You'll like it. Its theaters and concert halls and operas are almost unrivaled anywhere on the continent."

"I can't wait. Yet I'm frightened. It'll be a new world for me Signor."

"Yes, it will. But you'll adjust. The real Morena I know that hides behind her servant front will come out for all to see. I can't wait Morena."

"Neither can I. I think I'm in a dream."

"It's real Morena."

She's so happy, he thought to himself. She needs to know how she got here. I have to tell her. His stomach twisted in a knot. They were enjoying each other's company. He'd never seen her so happy as she was. But she deserved to know.

"Morena, I have to tell you something." he said seriously

"Signor?"

"Do you have any idea how I got the Baron to allow you to leave?"

"No. I assumed you persuaded him."

He sighed and took a piece of paper from his pocket, "do you know what this is?" he asked, handing it to her.

"It's my indentured certificate."

"Yes, look at it."

"It has your name on it," she said slowly, "You bought me." she said at last. She looked up at him for an explanation and his guilty eyes met hers.

"I'm so sorry Morena, It was the only way I could convince him to let you go."

"So I really don't have a choice as to whether or not I'm going to sing, do I?" she said icily.

"Of course you do! Morena, I wouldn't...Give me that paper." he grabbed the paper and rapidly tore it to shreds.

Morena stared at him. Then smiled. It was wonderful of him. Yes he had purchased her. The thought of being bought and sold for a second time turned her stomach. But he didn't have to by her. He could have left her at the manor and found another singer to train. And she couldn't imagine how much the Vicomte must have demanded for her. And just now he'd thrown all that money away when he'd torn up the certificate and freed her. If she didn't want to sing she didn't have to. Of course she would, but she could decide. For the first time in six years _she could say no. _For all he knew at the moment his investment might come to nothing if he refused. He willingly risked his money on her. Her eyes welled up with tears. No, she would not cry in front of him again. Despite herself a tear rolled down her cheek. She swiftly wiped it away and calmed.

"Thank you Signor."

"You're not angry with me then?"

At the earnest look with which he spoke those words she couldn't speak and could only shake her head.

"Thank God. Another episode with you angry at me would take years off my life."

She laughed.

"And, will you sing?"

"Of course I will."

They talked of other things as the carriage rolled on. It bounced through little villages and open meadows. Morena had tears in her eyes several times. It was so beautiful! She'd not been out of sight of the manor in six years. Now she felt free. Now she _was_ free. As the day went on and they traveled farther south the rain clouds disappeared and the sky turned crisp blue. They didn't stop at an inn to lunch for Morena had brought some cold poultry left over from the banquet. It was night when they finally rolled into Parisinnia, they'd been traveling for almost a full day when they reached the Baron's house. It was large, very large, in what she knew must be a very stylish area of the city. It was one of countless sandstone facades that stretched on down the city blocks.

Neither traveler had been able to sleep due to the constant bouncing of the carriage. Morena was exhausted. She heard the Baron tell her as he helped her out of the carriage that the woman in front of her was Marie and would show her to her rooms. She followed the woman up stairs, through corridors and at last into one of the most beautiful rooms she'd ever seen. It was spacious with a large fireplace directly in front and large windows to the right. Next to the windows was a good sized, beautiful desk. In front of the fireplace were arranged a couch and two chairs with a table in the center. Bookshelves lined the walls around the fireplace. To the left was a door through which Marie led Morena. Straight ahead was another large window. On the right wall was another fireplace and on the left a large light wood four poster bed in lavender linens. Through a haze of exhaustion Morena was made to understand that the large, beautiful rooms were her living quarters. Someone brought in her trunk and she changed into her nightgown. Finally she slipped between the softest, smoothest sheets she'd ever felt, onto the softest, most comfortable mattress and pillows she'd ever lain on. With a roaring fire across from her, she closed her curtains and fell asleep. If she were any less tired she wouldn't have been able to sleep in her beautiful, comfortable, fine surroundings.


	8. Chapter 8

So dear readers of mine, how's this for quick updating?

She was awakened hours later by sunlight peeking through the curtains. She looked around her, felt her surroundings. Something was wrong. She was too warm, too comfortable. Suddenly she jumped out of bed.

"Oh no," she thought, "I've fallen asleep in Bianca's room again."

She looked around again. This wasn't Bianca's room. It wasn't any room in the manor. Then everything came back to her. She was at the Baron's house. She wasn't a servant anymore, but she was to be a singer. Filled with bliss from the remembrance she threw back her head and laughed. Suddenly life was bright. She looked around her room for a clock. There was a very ornate one above the mantle that read 6:30. As tired as she was the previous night she'd awaken only an hour later than usual. She opened her trunk and took out her best dress. That vain, feminine part of her wanted to look nice to match her surroundings although she knew her clothes simply weren't good enough to do it. She made her bed and stepped into her sitting room.

It was too strange. There was too much space, too much finery. It couldn't be hers. It was a dream, a dream she didn't belong in. In her plain servant's garb she felt as if the chair across from her which she was afraid to sit in for fear she would sully it, must be looking down at her. And yet, she was filled with excitement at a new life where these things would be common. And again yet, how would she ever get used to it?

The door opened and Marie came in bearing a tray.

"Good Morning Signorina," she greeted politely, "I"m surprised to find you up already. Signor de Divezi told me to wake you. I've brought you a little breakfast. Shall I set it up in front of the fireplace Signorina?"

Morena didn't answer. Who was this girl talking to? She looked around. There was no one else there. The maid was talking to her that way! It was too peculiar. People didn't talk to Morena Arzecci like that. Morena talked to others like that. Bewildered, she didn't say anything. Marie tried again: "Signori-"

"Morena." She interjected hastily, unwilling to let the strange address reach her ears again, "call me Morena."

Marie stared at her a moment and then, "I can't do that signorina." She said quite solemnly.

Of course she couldn't, Morena thought to herself, a servant didn't speak to people they were serving like that. But she herself was a servant! No, not a servant any longer praise God, but certainly not someone maids speak politely and distantly to. But Marie didn't know that.

"Yes Marie, in front of the fireplace please." She said resignedly.

She sat down in front of a steaming hot plate of tea, eggs, cheese, scones, and fruit. It smelled heavenly. She couldn't remember a time when she'd had so much food set before her. She was suddenly aware of how hungry she felt, how hungry she'd felt for years. As Morena sat staring at her food Marie said innocently

"You'll want to change Signorina, Signor told me to tell you that you're to wear your best clothes and meet him in his study."

It was like a slap in the face. She looked at Marie's clothes and realized they were nicer than hers. Morena had not been a serving maid, she was used for cleaning, she was to make sure that no one besides the servants ever saw her. It wasn't necessary for her to have nice-looking clothes so she had taken the other servant's discarded clothes. She turned red but said only "thank you Marie."

As the maid left Morena noticed an envelope on the tray with her name on it. She opened it and read:

_Morena,_

_I trust you have slept well and have enjoyed your first few hours of freedom. Do enjoy them, for you're soon to start a musical regime that may make you long for the Viscomte's manor. Meet me to begin it at a quarter past seven in my study. Wear your best. I don't want to see you dressed as a servant anymore. I want to see the real Morena, not the servant Morena. I apologize if Marie wakes you earlier than you would have liked. _

_Rodrigo Signor Rodrigo Baron de_ Rodrigo De Divezi

Beneath this he had drawn a map telling her how to get to his study. For some reason this made her laugh.

She finished eating in no time at all and found that she was almost as hungry as before and yearned for more of the delicious sustenance set before her. She set out with her map for the Baron's study. For the first time she was consciously struck by the house. It was beautiful. Marble floors and oak paneled walls. She felt so out of place in it. She followed her map to the top of the stairs. The rooms there were arranged in a rectangle that looked over the first floor entrance. The Baron's room was just to the left of the stairs. She knocked and was told to come in.

Gently she turned the crystal knob and opened slowly the heavy oak door. Quietly she shut it behind her.

"Good morning Morena." the Baron said matter-of-factly without looking up from the papers he was reading. Morena could tell immediately that he was in his strict, distant teaching mood rather than his personable, friendly one.

"Good morning Signor." She answered without moving from the door. He looked up at her, frowning and started to put away his papers and take out others all without removing his eyes from her. At last he said.

"I told you to wear your best. I'm tired of seeing you in servants' clothes."

She colored, too embarrassed to say anything, only looked down at the richly woven carpet beneath her worn boots.

"Ah," the Baron said, embarrassed, "I see. We'll have to do something about that. I'll look up the name of my mother's old dressmaker. We'll get you something decent to wear."

"Signor, you can't go through the troub-"

"You can't wear what you have, that's certain. Come sit down. We'll begin music theory lessons again, finally. You've probably forgotten everything by now. Where did we leave off?"

"The minor sixth."

"Mmm" he said thoughtfully staring at her again as she settled herself in the chair across from his at the desk.

"Go back to the door and then walk to the chair again."

"Signor?"

"Do it."

He was always curt and rather impossible when he taught. She did as he said. Half way to the chair he stopped her again.

"No. I need to teach you to walk properly. Hold yourself higher. Straighten your back and hold your shoulders back. Go back to the door and do it again."

She did,

"Now hold your head up. Don't look down at the floor, look straight ahead. Do it again."

She did. Parading back and forth made her feel uncomfortable. She couldn't get it right.

The Baron sighed. Six years of bending over to scrub floors and stir fires and bow to those she served had forced her shoulders forward and her head down. Her body didn't even remember the correct way to hold itself. He had his work cut out for him.

"Morena," he said gently, "here, let me show you what I mean." he placed his hands gently on both her shoulders and guided them back. "Good, now stay like that and walk." her head was still down.

"Wait," he stopped her and crossed in front of her. He put his hand underneath her chin and lifted it until it looked straight ahead, "you're not a servant anymore and you look down to no one. Try it again." She walked like a lady. Finally.

"Good, now sit and stay like that."

For four hours they reviewed music theory and he taught her more. As usual, he expected her to understand everything as soon as he said it and to remember everything he said. He had little patience when she didn't and even less for mistakes. By the end of four hours Morena's head was spinning. They had a quick lunch, during which time the baron found the address of his mother's dressmaker, and then went into the music room adjacent to the Baron's study where she had an hour and a half long voice lesson. By one thirty she was exhausted but not as exhausted as she had been at the manor. It was a pleasant exhaustion of having worked on something loved. She felt fulfilled.

"There." the Baron said, "your first day as a musician. What do you think? Do you want me to send you back to the manor?" he was his own self again.

"That's not funny Signor. This day's been exhausting but a dream come true. I love it."

"You look happy."

"I am. Very happy." she smiled.

"Despite the misery I've put you through. I know how impossible I am when it comes to music."

She laughed, "If that's your idea of misery you've had a very easy life. You're meticulous and demand perfection from yourself in your music, it's logical you should demand the same of others."

"It's amazing. I"ve never been able to have students, they've all given up after one lesson because they can't stand my teaching. Five and a half hours and you've not uttered one sigh, shed one tear, shot me one murderous glance, spoken one word of complaint, nothing."

"I really don't mind so much; I know the other side of you well enough. Besides, I've met with much fewer patient men."

"Mmm. Straighten your back."

She'd lost count of how many times he'd told her to do that.

"All right," he said, "we need to get to that dressmaker's"

"Signor, I'm going to pay you back every cent as soon as I earn it."

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Come on to the carriage. We'll go the long way through the park."

Morena was struck by the city. So large, so lovely. The park was enormous and, although it hadn't reawakened from its winter slumber, presented a sense of grandeur.

Madame Levant's, the dressmaker's, had for its clients the most fashionable ladies in Parissina, indeed in all of Fraznia. It was a good sized establishment and the dignified lady who opened the door greeted the Baron warmly and apologized profusely for his mother's passing and introduced herself as Madame Levant.

"And who is this?" she asked looking condescendingly at Morena, the wide smile she had worn while talking to the Baron pasted on now that she'd seen Morena's attire.

"This is-" Rodrigo thought rapidly. Who could he say she was? What wouldn't set off gossiping tongues? Nothing.

"This is my protege. You're to treat her with the utmost respect and fit her for a new wardrobe." He said pleasantly, "I hope you can start immediately. How long will you need?"

"Madame Levant looked Morena over "A good four hours I would say."

"Very well. I want a few things ready in the next few hours that she can wear immediately. The rest take your time with and send to the same address as you did for my mother."

"Of course Signor," the woman said as if she were forced to, "Maria,"

"Morena," she and the baron corrected at the same time.

"Yes," the woman went on unfazed, "step through this door here, I'll be right with you."

"Madame Levant," the Baron said as soon as Morena was gone, "neither you nor anyone who helps you with Morena need tell anyone you ever laid eyes on her today." he said pressing several large bills into her hand. She stared down at them wide-eyed and nodded vigorously, too shocked to speak, "and remember Madame, the utmost respect."

Madame Levant was left stunned. What was going on between this respectable young man and this girl in the next room dressed in the most ill-fitting, horrid clothes she'd ever seen? His protege? Odd in the extreme. However, staring down at the large collection in her hand, she decided to pocket it along with her thoughts and left to tend to the girl.

Morena endured four hours of whirling colors and fabrics, of being poked and prodded by stays or dresses that didn't fit, and of being addressed politely as Mademoiselle, or Signorina after she told them she was Itolnian. It was all too strange to Morena. She felt out of place and awkward. By the end of four hours she didn't know which was the more difficult part of her day lessons or dressing. When it was over a few things were put in boxes, the rest Madame Levant told her would be sent to her in a few days. At last she was left alone in the first room to wait.

There was a mirror there and when she looked in it she gasped. She didn't recognize herself. She didn't look like herself. She'd cleaned the rooms of women who looked like her. Her dress was simple by most standards but the height of elegance to Morena, so unused to wearing anything nice. The corset she'd been given did little for her, only because there was little to do anything with, but it made her stand straight which would appease the Baron. The dress, she thought, was lovely but there was something out of place in it: her. She couldn't get used to it. Morena Arzecci didn't wear clothes like this. She stared at her reflection, trying to reconcile herself to what she saw. So intent was she in this that she wouldn't have noticed the Baron when he came in if she hadn't heard a small sound from his direction. She looked down and colored when s he saw him, embarrassed to look so different.

Rodrigo's breath caught in his throat when he saw her. He'd thought her pretty before, but now, removed from her poor servant's garb, detached, physically at least, from her servile existence, she was...beautiful. Her back was straight but she held herself shyly as if trying to retreat within herself. He smiled when she blushed. _She hasn't had a new thing to wear in years_, he thought to himself,_ being the center of attention is all new to her. Looking so lovely is new to her._

"Well," he said pleasantly, "that's more like it."

She looked up and smiled, "can you get used to me like this Signor? I can't. I feel like I've stepped into someone else's body Or rather someone else's closet."

"You'll get used to it." he said walking to stand beside her to lift her chin up, "_this _is the Morena you were meant to be. Not indentured servant Morena, but Morena Arzecci, Prima Donna of the Opera Parissine."

They both smiled at the thought.

"I don't know how I'm going to change into that Morena."

"If you change I'll never forgive you. You'll learn to hold your head up, and to wear fashionable clothes, and to make mindless, pointless conversation so that you can assume your place in musical history."

"Everything is spinning," she said on the way back to his house, "two days ago I was a servant. Now I've been placed in this world with marble and mahogany and beautiful clothes. It's too strange for me, I don't know what to make of it."

Rodrigo smiled, "do you think you'll like it?"

"I know I'll love it. It's getting used to it that will take years off of my life."

They dined together that night and talked as friends. Morena used the wrong utensil for everything and her eyes were wide at the multiple course meal. Rodrigo put her mind to rest when she declared yet again that it was all too strange and that she didn't know how she could live in this new world.

That night when she went back to her bedroom and was changing into her new nightclothes, she realized that her old clothes were missing, her own three times hand-me-down servant's clothes. They must have been discarded at Madame Levant's she thought. Slipping under the warm bedclothes, shielded from the cold night by a blazing fire in the fireplace, however out of place she still felt, she didn't care about the clothes. Overwhelmed but excited by her day and looking forward to the prospect of many more, the last thing she thought of before she fell asleep was the feeling of the Baron's hands on her shoulders, guiding them back, and of his hand lifting her chin, meeting her eyes with his.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** the opera is based on the one in Paris which inspired Gaston Leroux's _Phantom of the Opera_ which in turn inspired aFABULOUS play which you all should see, and now (despite what the critics say) a GREAT movie which you also all should see.

**Clavel**: Wow! I am sooo glad you're enjoying it. You're review almost made me cry! Thank you so much!

**Erin**: Thank you, thank you, thank you! Soooo glad you like it. I'm trying to draw out the relationship to make it seem more authentic, glad to hear it's working. Yes, I am a musician. I'm a singer, harpist, and occaisonally I bang out a few notes on the piano. I do spend much more time practicing my instruments than studying music theory, in fact I'm ashamed of how little theory I do know. However, I know that on a university level music theory, and music skills are major classes at least equal in importance to practicing. Plus, as a singer you can't practice too long or your voice goes dead. I get what your saying though and will work on it.

Special thanks to **Tiger Lily21, Rowenhood, sealednectar, StiaphMarie.**

**Enjoy!**

A week passed and Morena began to gradually adjust to her new life. At the end of a week she came to expect servants to address her respectfully but she felt no less awkward and uncomfortable when they did. She'd given up trying to make conversation with them because their respectful, proper distance made it impossible. By devoting her entire day to music she made great strides in a week. She'd picked up some of the books on her bookshelves and discovered that they were in languages she used to know. By reading them aloud the languages began to take shape again in her mind. Each day the Baron took Morena out to see different parts of the city though the place she wanted to see most, the Opera house, he wouldn't show her just yet.

So, Morena was happy. At long last she was happy. Her days were filled with doing what she loved and were spent with one of the few people on earth she cared for who, she believed, truly did enjoy her company.

At the end of the first week in the afternoon just after the Baron and Morena had lunched, while they shared a few minutes of conversation in his office before getting back to studying, one of the servants came in and announced the arrival of Signor De Dremas.

"Ah, wonderful. Show him up immediately."

When the manservant left he continued to Morena, "My assistant. He must have just arrived in the city. Wonderful, we'll finally discuss the new opera. I'm glad you'll finally meet him, we're always together when an opera goes into production which means you'll be seeing plenty of him as well. Be sure to hold out your hand when I introduce you."

Before he could say anything else the door opened and a tall young man with light hair and brown eyes came in.

"Antonio!" the Baron said

"Rodrigo!" the assistant replied. And rapidly the two men shared a rapid embrace and began talking rapidly in greeting. Morena, out of habit, had stood up when Antonio entered and stood quietly observing the two friends catch up with each other before Antonio turned to her.

"Ah," he said, "so this must be the Morena you've written me so much about." he looked her over critically

"Yes," the Baron replied, "allow me to present Signorina Morena Arzecci, future star of the musical world."

"Mmm. We'll see." he replied with much less animation than he had used a moment ago in talking to his friend. He crossed to Morena and she held out her hand as instructed. Antonio de Dremas took it and bowed over it politely. Morena felt awkward when he did it but not in the way she had when the Baron had done so. When he straightened he didn't let go of her hand but turned it over and stared at it critically with a frown he made no attempt to hide. When she realized what he was doing she pulled her hand away and stared at the floor, blood rushing to her face in embarrassment.

"So, it's true," Antonio said, "your protege really is a servant. I thought you were joking when you wrote and told me that you'd found an indentured servant with the voice of an angel. A servant you want to sing opera. Are you out of your mind Rodrigo? She can't sing at the Opera Parisine. What were you thinking?" He was incredulous.

"I am not out of my mind! Who do you think you are? Let's not forget who had to take odd-jobs secretly to pay for University."

"It isn't my fault Itolni doesn't take care of its nobility."

"You haven't even heard her sing. How dare you judge her because her hands aren't as fine as yours!"

"How dare you take this girl out of her place based on a few months of music lessons!"

"Antonio," the Baron said trying to calm himself, "let's go into the music room so you can hear her sing. I promise you, such a second soprano you have never heard nor will you ever again hear." He extended his hand to Morena and guided her into the music room.

"Don't let him bother you Morena." he whispered to her. Then he settled himself at the piano and told her to sing Le plezone marille. She did so. Flawlessly. When she finished the Baron turned to Antonio.

"What do you say now?"

"Well," he said simply, apparently too shocked to speak for a moment, "fine then. She has remarkable talent. Her voice is lovely but cries out with inexperience."

"That's why we're going to give her a small part to start."

"Fine then. Have her sing. I'm still dead set against it but there was never any reasoning with you. Just remember I never supported this thing. The real question is what are you going to tell people about her? People will never accept an opera diva who started out as a servant. They'll boycott the Opera if they find out."

"No one has to know."

"You've got to tell them something. They're going to ask."

They were talking about Morena but she felt as if she weren't in the room. They were in that world she didn't understand.

"You're right. Since you're so outspoken today why don't you think of something?"

Antonio studied Morena for a moment.

"Where are you from?"

"Colista." She answered.

"That poor little port town?"

"It's only poor because the men making money off the ships won't condescend to live near the ones making them that money."

"That won't do," he said ignoring her comment, "We'll have to keep you Itolnian though. You have an accent." he thought again, "I have it. You are the only child of an impoverished ship owner from Parino who lost his fortune when his ships were lost at sea. It happens, yes?"

"Indeed." Morena answered.

"You're father died shortly thereafter. Rodrigo was passing through Parino when he heard singing from the church. He stepped inside to find out where it was from and discovered you singing at your father's funeral. After training you for a few years he brought you here for your debut. Since you were impoverished your manners are a little rough around the edges and you can't afford your own flat. What do you say?"

"I never go to Parino." the Baron said skeptically.

"Neither does anyone else. It's perfect."

"Fine then."

"Good. Your name then Morena will be-"

"Morena Elissa Arzeci." she answered forcefully. Antonio looked at her in surprise at her forcefulness. "If you need to rewrite my past to still gossiping tongues so be it but I refuse to let you change anything else about me. My father gave me my name. And my father really is dead. I won't blacken his memory by taking away what he gave me unless it truly is necessary."

The Baron smiled proudly. She would hold her own in this world.

"No one with any money would name their daughter something like Morena," Antonio protested, "it's obnoxiously exotic. How did you get it?"

"My father thought it had something to do with the word 'queen' because the Old Itolnian word for queen is Rena."

"Your father was wrong."

"That doesn't matter."

"You can't keep that name."

It was a battle of wills now. The issue was much larger than the one being discussed.

"I will."

"Perhaps you simply won't sing then."

"That isn't for you to decide."

"Remember who you're talking to." he seethed, grabbing her wrist. This was a delicate issue to Antonio. He was a count and Rodrigo only a Baron yet he held the reins.

"Remember who _you_ are talking to Antonio."

"Ah yes, forgive me. The servant maid Morena Arzeci." He said sarcastically, "how disrespectful of me."

"The future star of the musical world and my protege. It isn't necessary for her to change her name therefore she will not."

"Well once again your word outweighs mine despite the fact you're only a Baron and I'm heir to a Counthood. But the minx must have bewitched you, Rodrigo. You wouldn't have taken the side of a servant six months ago."

That was the last straw for the Baron.

"That's enough Antonio!" he shouted, rising from his chair, "Morena is my student, my friend, and she is going to sing whether you approve or not. If you don't approve I suggest you keep it to yourself or I'll find myself another assistant."

"You'll risk my friendship to get this girl on the stage."

"Yes. I care about music more than anything, you of all people know that. I thought we shared enough friendship for you to respect my decision. I thought you were enough of a gentlemen to respect Morena. I will not have you stand in the way of Morena's success."

"Very well then. I will stifle my misgivings for friendship's sake." he said with a sardonic smile.

The Baron sighed. Why did Antonio have to play the proud aristocrat and make things more difficult than they had to be? Unnecessary tension is not good for artists, he reflected thinking of Morena. She would surely give her opinion of Antonio in detail later on. He dreaded trying to produce an opera with both of them.

"I was planning on showing Morena the Opera today. Will you come?"He said amicably in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere.

"Very well. I need to talk to some people there."

"Fine. Morena get your cloak and meet us downstairs. I'll send for the carriage."

The ride to the Opera was filled with tense, awkward silence. Morena was thrilled and excited but also angry and disgusted at this proud nobleman. She was worried too. What if everyone was like this to her?

Her thoughts were distracted by the appearance of the most beautiful building she had ever seen. It was an enormous, rectangular sandstone structure with enormous windows, a large staircase, and statues all over.

"What do you think of your place of employment Morena?" the Baron asked teasingly

"My place of employment?"

"It's the Opera Parissine." Antonio snipped.

"It's amazing. I've never seen anything like it."

The three of them climbed out of the carriage and up the stairs into the building. Morena never imagined such mammoth beauty. All around her was marble. Marble floors and marble walls. Into the walls were dug openings into other hallways. In front of her was a great marble staircase and above her were velvet carpeted hallways and more doors.

"What will you see first the theater or backstage?"

"The theater." she said mesmerized.

She was lead through one of the doors and down corridors until she found herself in an enormous room. On her level were dozens of empty seats. To her left were what the Baron called "Boxes" separated by marble columns. Red velvet was everywhere. And to her right was and enormous stage. A red velvet curtain fell across most of it. In front of the stage was a depression in the floor.

"The orchestra pit." The Baron said.

Here and there were statues of marble and gold. It was beautiful and grand and Morena had to remind herself to breath so she wouldn't pass out from the sheer splendor of it. On that stage in a few months she would sing. This marvel of architecture, art, and culture was to be almost as a home to her. She was overwhelmed by a sense of gratitude and humility and awe.

"You'll be on that stage next week." the baron said.

"Next week?" she asked.

"Next week. You'll need to come so the directors and conductor can hear you sing. Don't worry. There's a fair sized part not taken yet that is surely for you. In a month and a half you'll take command of this building. The world will never forget you."

"It's too much. It's heaven."

"It must be close," the Baron agreed, "and you haven't seen back stage yet. Come."

He opened a door to the pit and descended a small flight of stairs. He led her out of the pit into workshops, hallways, rooms that were empty besides a piano or a mirror with a bar across it. Past dressing rooms and even dormitories. The building was a village unto itself. The Baron told her the foundation was so deep that in the fifth basement there was a lake. The Opera included a school for future dancers and even housed many of them.

Music, Morena mused, is an amazing thing. Transcending time, language, corresponding to every emotion. It can be spectacle or it can be barely perceivable. It is more than art, it is almost religion. And I am to be a part of it, she thought, and finally, standing on the stage of the world-renowned Opera, the realization hit her. What she felt then went beyond happiness. It was completion, fulfillment, a feeling of coming home at last after ages of searching. She had found her place.

Morena's mind was only partially in the confines of the carriage on the way back to the Baron's house but much later she would remember snippets of conversation. She would remember Antonio saying

"This _Il Pulchreza _your writing. It's appalling. You'll never be able to produce it. If you do you'll be ruined. Don't mix political issues with music. People don't take kindly to this sort of thing."

At the time she hadn't any idea what he was talking about.


	10. Chapter 10

Sorry this has taken so long everyone!

Clavel: Thanks! Good analysis of Rodrigo

sophianwin: Thanks so much for keeping me on my toes. (!)

Special thanks to TgerLily21, StephMarie, Rowenhood, Erin, and new reviewers (YAY!) Moonjava, KeepingTheMoon, and jollyrancher-j2k

A week passed and Morena arrived at the Opera Parissine again, stood on the stage and sang for several of the Opera's owners, producers, directors, and musicians. She was astounding. Despite the fact that her stomach was in knots and that her knees shook uncontrollably as she sang, she walked out of the Opera having been cast in even a larger role than Rodrigo had expected.

She was ecstatic. If only Antonio weren't coming that night for dinner life would have been perfect. She didn't know though that greater sadness was headed her way.

When she arrived home, for that was how she was coming to think of the Baron's house, there was a letter for her on the table in the entrance. It was her brother's handwriting. Marveling at how wonderful life was she ran upstairs to her room, lay down on her sofa and opened the seal and read:

_My dear older sister,_

_I can't tell you how overjoyed I was to read your last letter. Imagine! My sister an opera singer at the world-renowned Opera Parissine. I'm thrilled for you, Morena. I know how happy you must be to get away from that manor. I know how unhappy you were there. Knowledge of my older sister's happiness is an enormous weight lifted from my shoulders. Based on what you've told me I trust the Baron de Divezzi. If you are in need of anything let me know. My apprenticeship is going wonderfully, in a year I'll become assistant master of the western docks. It's an important position as you know. It's thanks to your sacrifice, Morena, that I'll be so well-off. _

His letter continued, telling her about his work the news of Colista, the usual things he wrote her about. But she thought there was something odd in his tone. His sentences went on and on as if he was putting something off. Finally at the end of the letter he wrote:

_Morena, I've saved this for the end because I don't know how to tell you. Morena, mother is furious with you. I've never seen her so angry as when she read your last letter. She started screaming about betrayal and our family's good name. She was too upset to write to you, so she asked me to send you this message from her. I'm sorry Morena. I'm writing this not because I agree with mother in the least but because I'm a dutiful son. This is what mother dictated to me:_

'_Morena I simply don't know what to say. What can a responsible mother, a respectable woman, say to a daughter who has betrayed her mother and family. What you have done is not what I raised you to do. I did not raise my first child to exhibit herself on a stage for all to see as a common opera girl! How could you defile yourself so! But you are not content at dragging your family's name through the mud by singing at opera alone. You must put yourself under the protection of a wealthy young nobleman! Our landlord to make things worse! What will people think of you? What will they think of me and our family? What would your father say?_

_This is what _I_ say to you. If you indeed go through with this disgusting insanity your home shall no longer be here. I cannot welcome a daughter who obviously does not care for her family; who does not care about the state of her family's good name and reputation. How dare you do this to us!'_

Roberto continued

_I am sorry Morena. But this is _my_ advice to you. You have earned the realization of your dream. And I know you too well to even suspect that your relationship with the Baron, who yes, is our landlord, is anything but professional. So good luck my dear sister._

_Roberto._

Morena read and reread her mother's message, disbelieving what she saw. How could her mother!How could she be so old-fashioned and provincial and..._unfeeling_? How could her mother take away her home after she was the reason they still had it? For six years, six years that would have been ten if not for the Baron, Morena had slaved in absolute misery to save her family. She didn't understand. She was supremely sad and supremely angry at the same time. She paced her floor, then sat at her desk at scribbled something angry to her mother which she then ripped up. What was she going to do? When happiness had finally arrived was it to so suddenly end? How could this be? If she didn't sing and instead went home she'd keep her family, the family whose memory had kept her going for six years, but loose her dream. If she followed her dream, the dream whose reviving, enthralling scent she could smell so close was she to it, she would loose her family. She wanted to scream or throw something. She walked over to the bookshelf and hurled a book across the room. Then she sank to the floor, sobbing.

She felt no better by dinner time. The last person she needed to be with was Antonio. But tonight was a dual celebration. She had been cast in a good role, and the Baron had been appointed conductor for the opera, the youngest in its history, as well as joint-producer. She would try to appear happy for his sake. He was so dear, she thought as she dressed, he'd been so happy for her earlier in the day. She owed it to him. She owed a great deal to him, not only for the many things he'd done for her, but simply for being him.

So she descended to the dining room with a smile pasted on, and tears still threatening. She was greeted in the dining room by Antonio's sardonic smile.

"Ah, the diva has graced us with her presence."

"Antonio, please." the Baron said, "it's a happy day for Morena and I. Please don't ruin it."

"No thanks to you it went well Antonio," she retorted, "what with you giving the accompanist my aria in the wrong key. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

"Morena, let's let bygones be bygones," the Baron said, pulling out her chair for her, "and revel in the day's good news."

Four courses and nearly two hours later the Baron wondered, for the hundredth time that night, why Morena wasn't happy. Besides her sharper-than-usual retort to Antonio earlier she'd said hardly anything throughout the meal. Ever now and then he would catch her eye and she would give her dazzling smile. But soon her face fell and she stared straight ahead at nothing. She ate hardly anything although her nerves had prevented her from eating either breakfast or lunch. He finally decided that before desert was brought out he should plead a headache to get Antonio out so he could tend to Morena.

"Antonio, I'm terribly sorry but I've had a dull ache in my head all day. It's escalated into a full-scale migraine. I think I ought to retire and sleep it off. Why don't you stay and have desert with Morena-"

"No thank you." Antonio said quickly, "I am sorry to hear about your headache. I hope it'll be better by tomorrow afternoon when I come over to discuss what you want to do with this opera. I'll show myself out."

"Yes. Have a good evening."

Morena breathed a silent sigh of relief when he left. Through the chaotic vacillations of her thoughts, she found it odd that the Baron pleaded a headache as she was sure he didn't have one. She was vaguely aware of him rising to pour himself a glass of port.

"Pour me one too." she said. She hated the stuff but it would distract her at least momentarily.

"But you don't dri-"

"Please." she said simply but forcefully. Rodrigo walked over to her place and set down the glass.

Morena picked it up and, closing her eyes swallowed, gulping. It was horrible and too sweet. She concentrated on how awful it was rather than the situation she was in until the glass was suddenly pulled out of her hand.

"What are you doing?" the Baron asked incredulously, "You never drink anything and suddenly your downing port like water!" then more gently, "tell me what's bothering you Morena. That's why I got rid of Antonio. I think you know as well as I do that I don't have a headache."

He was so kind, so thoughtful, Morena thought. It brought tears to her eyes again which she fought back, but not before the Baron saw them.

"You should be happy Morena. You have a great future starting today. What's bothering you? Tell me. What are friends for but to help in times like this?"

A friend. Yes. He was a friend. Why not tell him?

"I received a letter from Roberto."

"That's good isn't it? You love hearing from your family."

"Yes. I love my family. Evidently–. I don't know. Roberto gave me a message from my mother who was too upset to write herself. She's furious that I've come her with you and that I'm going to sing. She says that if I go through with it I will no longer have a home with her and she will cut off communication with me."

Rodrigo stared at her for a moment, stunned. How could a mother do this. Especially the mother of Morena?

"How can she?"

"She says I've betrayed my family, and that I've dragged their name through the mud."

"After what you sacrificed–"

"Six years in hell on earth to save them."

"And when you finally get your chance for happiness–"

"My old fashioned provincial mother chooses to forget. Or simply not care. Perhaps distance has drawn us too far apart and she's given her maternal love for me to my siblings."

"A mother is supposed to love her children unconditionally. Although she did sell you before so–"

"My mother is a good woman," she snapped, "we decided that together. I agreed to go with the Vicomte." Yes, she'd said that for years. It was true. She'd agreed after hours of her mother's pleading and persuading.

There was silence. After seeing Morena constantly for months, Rodrigo tried to picture a world without her. He didn't like what he saw.

"What will you do?" he finally asked quietly. A small sobbed escaped her but she quieted others that threatened to break out.

Don't be afraid to cry in front of me, he told her silently, let comfort you.

"Either way I loose," she said, "but I want this chance at happiness so much my stomach turns to knots just thinking about it. Earlier today on that stage, letting my voice fly, feeling the music as I never have before, then the applause after that, the prospect of more, it seems like heaven." small pause, then, "It's my turn to be happy. For six years I was cold and hungry and tired, years before that I'd forgotten happiness when my father was arrested." another small pause, then quietly, "my father would tell me to sing. I know he would. I know it." she smiled sadly but sincerely, "I'm going to sing. After today I just have to sing."

Rodrigo smiled broadly. He didn't have to use words to tell her how happy he was. For a moment he thought he'd loose her. That moment was devastating.

"I suppose I've only got Roberto and you left in the world, Signor," she said.

"Then I'll be both friend and family," he said comfortingly, "and call me Rodrigo."

These excerpts were taken from the correspondence between Morena to her brother Roberto over the next two months.

_Well Roberto, I have decided to stay. Please relay my message to mother. I have slaved for six years, it is my turn for happiness. I am happy. Rehearsal's for Rodrigo's (the Baron's ) opera have begun. I can't tell you how exhilarating it is. I love it. People like me and I have made an acquaintance or two. It seems as if at last my dreams are coming true._

_At last Roberto, at long last Rodrigo has taken me to an opera. It was called Gauditia. It was the most wonderful thing I've ever experienced. The lead soprano, Beatrice Potier, I thought was enchanting, but the Baron says that after many seasons as lead soprano she's on her way out. We both agreed that the principle tenor, Richard Rimif, and bass, Andre Columbe, were superb. Then there was the music the like of which I'd never heard. Every emotion was played. I felt so at home. Then the dancers, and the scenery, and the lights, I can't begin to describe to you how monumental it all was. Suffice to say I can never be the same._

_Rodrigo then introduced me to some, what he said were, important people. In other words I met hosts of noblemen and their wives. There were enough counts and Vicounts and Marquesses to last me a lifetime but Rodrigo says I've many more to meet. _

_Every day I grow more accustomed to this new life of mine. The manor already seems like another world. Home is but a distant memory. Sometimes it seems as if it were only a dream dreamt by some other girl._

_I have fallen into a routine of rehearsals and lessons. I rise at about seven o'clock, breakfast in my room, and warm up my voice with Rodrigo. We then go to the Opera House. Because other operas in production are using the stage our company rehearses in one of the opera's several rehearsal rooms. The singer's has a mirror on one wall. It is extremely odd to look at myself when I'm singing and most unpleasant. At eight thirty the singers are warmed up and, for a period when the director, choreographer, and conductor all seem to be busy the dancers drift in from their rehearsal room across the hall and we mill about, conversing about different things. I've made some friends this way. At about nine o'clock Rodrigo enters, tells the dancers to get back to their own rooms, hands out librettos, sits at the piano and says something like: "all right then, would someone trouble himself to tell me where we left off?" Someone does trouble himself or herself and singing commences. At some point our director comes in and movement is added. My role is that of the daughter of a countess, friend of the lead (Beatrice Potier), who seems frivolous throughout most of the play and provides a good deal of comic relief, but proves herself in an act of sacrifice to save the lovers. True opera! Beatrice and I, unfortunately, do not get along. I have become good friends however with Richard and Andre. _

_There is a short break for lunch somewhere in there, by two thirty we are usually free. Back at Rodrigo's house my music lessons continue in music theory, music skills and violin. Music history has been added as have, interestingly, ballroom dance lessons. I find that I look forward to these dance lessons all day. We usually dine early, around six o'clock and either Rodrigo and I will sit and talk for a few hours, or I will return to my room to read, write, or study. It is a tiring routine but a most enjoyable one. I can't tell you how happy I am._

_I am writing to you from a lovely little flat overlooking the park. Rodrigo thought it best to rent me my own flat as I was becoming more noticeable in society since we have been going to more concerts, theater, etc. lately. He is paying my rent now, but of course I will pay him back as soon as I receive payment from the opera. In addition I have a new sprig wardrobe, which I will of course also reimburse him for. My flat is small and simple as I wanted it to be, but lovely. It has five rooms: a sitting/music room where my new friends visit me, a small bedroom for me, a dining room, a kitchen, and my maid's room. Yes, I have a maid. Another thing I will have to reimburse Rodrigo for. I didn't want one. I wasn't a maid six years for nothing. Rodrigo argued that it would be unseemly if I didn't have one and did all my cooking and cleaning myself. He said even if it were, he didn't want me to do that sort of thing any more. So I had to relent. Perhaps because it is just the two of us I find her less distant than the servants at Rodrigo's home and have been able to form a friendship with her, even assisting with dinner most days. _

_Relations between myself and Antonio have grown less hostile recently. I believe Rodrigo has spoken to him after he found me in tears after he found me in tears after a conversation with Antonio. Fortunately I have not found other nobles so hostile. In fact I went on an outing the other day with the Baroness de Nimas, whose husband is an acquaintance of Rodrigo. In the last month and a half I have been trying to decipher my new social situation. It is much higher than it used to be of course either in Colista or at that manor, yet no one else who works at the opera associates with nobles. It seems that it is only my acquaintance friendship with Rodrigo that entitles me to keep such company. The Baroness de Nimas and her husband are good friends of Rodrigo's. I believe that many of the other fashionable nobles are not eager to associate with me, and the Baroness was allying herself with me for Rodrigo's sake. This social game is not an easy one to play I find. Unspoken rules abound. At any rate, my work, which is to say my art, which is to say my life, thrives. We have only a week until the opera. Rehearsals have moved to the stage and how wonderful it is! What a thrill to be accompanied by a fifty piece orchestra rather than simply a piano. In addition, I have been given my own dressing room. A small one, but more than many others have. Every day seems to bring with it an additional happiness. If only you could be here to hear me sing, and I could see how you've grown and changed I would be in heaven. So instead, say a prayer for my nerves which I don't know how I will control, and wish me luck! _


	11. Chapter 11

Wow! I owe all of my reviewers an enormous apology for not updating in so long. I am so very, very sorry. Thank you all for being so patient and not sending me reviews telling me to hurry things up. Thanks to Stephmarie, Clavel, MQW, Tiger Lily21, jollyrancher-j2k, and sealednectar. MQW: I didn't even realize the Andre Richard thing. It's so weird. I based the names on people I know in real life. Lol.

Enjoy!(and review)

Spring had come. It was not the bleak, gray spring of northern Fraznia that entered with trepidation. It was very nearly and Itolnian spring: clear, bright, and warm. It was 9:00 on such a spring morning that Morena was awakened by the light, beautiful, clean light peeking through the closed curtains and reflecting off her mirror. She opened her eyes slowly and rolled over gently to look at the clock. She smiled and sighed happily. Rodrigo had kept her up late last night, refining some of her songs, and promised that she could sleep late today to be rested for the coming this evening. The evening! She rolled onto her stomach and hid under the pillow. Her debut was that evening. The very thought made her groan and almost tremble with nervousness that bordered on fear. How could she do it? She would fail and disappoint everyone. She would disprove what she'd been trying so hard to prove. No! She mustn't think like this. She mustn't think of it at all. She must go on as if it were any other day.

She climbed out of bed, tore open the curtains, washed her face and dressed, leaving her hair alone. She could smell breakfast cooking from the kitchen. She didn't know that Rodrigo had been waiting in the sitting room for half an hour with his newspaper trying very earnestly, but more fruitlessly, to read.

He would do anything not to show it but truth be told he was just as nervous for Morena as she was for herself in addition to being nervous for himself at the reaction of his new opera. Morena had so much hinging on her performance and that was just the beginning. After the opera they were to go together to Madame Beaumet's gala, Morena's official social debut. The opera would decide her career, the gala her social place. It would not be easy. When Rodrigo cast in his lot among the musicians he had his money to shield him and because of it he retained his place in society. But Morena had only his protection, and in the Jungle of civilized society it was each man for himself; Rodrigo could only do so much. Twice when they'd gone to the theater after people learned that Morena was to sing opera, the people in the boxes next to them had gotten up and moved to those of their friends. The first time this happened Morena did not understand the reason and soon forgot the incident. But by the second time her understanding of society had grown and she'd shaken with what Rodrigo assumed was anger and humiliation and sadness throughout the entire performance but refused to let him take her home. She was strong. There were, of course, those of Rodrigo's friends who would, and had already, supported Morena. But Madame de Lafete had not been near Morena's house since she paid a call one day on to discover Regina Heister, a dancer at the opera who was adored especially by the city's gentlemen, sipping tea with Morena.

As for her performance, Rodrigo had little doubt that she would do amazingly, he only empathized with her severe nervousness. The worst that could happen would be that those nerves got the better of her, which was a decided possibility. Yet if she could live six years under that demon of a Viscount she could do tonight what she was born to do. He wondered what he would do if she did fail. He reflected that a year ago he would have been angry and disgusted and sent her back to her family regardless of whether or not she was wanted there. He couldn't dream of doing that now. If she failed, he would give her another chance in a heartbeat.

In the middle of these reflections, Rodrigo felt a presence behind him and a warm breath on his head. Startled, he looked up to see smiling green eyes and red lips glinting mischievously.

"I've been standing behind you for five minuted now, watching you not read your paper and waiting for you to notice me." She said, pretending to be indignant.

"And I've been waiting for you to wake up for near an hour now." He retorted sternly.

"I never invited you to come into my house at all hours of the day and put my maid to work all without my knowledge." She answered haughtily, knowing it was really his house and his maid since she wouldn't have a penny of her own until that night with which to pay for them. However, he didn't say anything but,

"Touche, then. What can I say, I was worried about you, and I"

"And you didn't want to lose anymore time than is necessary before practicing." She finished for him, crossing to the couch across from him. They had had this conversation before.

"I promise, I won't make you sing, I don't want to wear out your voice before tonight. We'll have a violin lesson to put you in a musical frame of mind, then–" He was going to say more but his eyes fixed for the first time on her hair. Since she didn't know he was there she hadn't arranged it but left it down. He'd never seen it like it was before. Her hair was long and thick and raven black with gentle curls. It reminded him of the hair of an angel he'd seen in a painting back in Itolni. He had an enormous desire he refused to acknowledge to bury his hands in it.

"Then?" her voice knocked him out of his reverie.

"Then we'll picnic in the park and I'll finally take you rowing. What do you say?"

"I say wonderful. It will keep my mind of this evening."

"You're still so nervous?"

"Oh Rodrigo, it gets worse by the minute. I can't so much as look at something red because it reminds me of the carpets at the opera. And that just nerves about the opera. Oh Rodrigo the gala! There's till so much that's unpolished about me, I know it."

She thought she was unpolished and perhaps she was. She certainly hadn't the sophistication of a lady. Her manner was either too reserved, out of shyness, or too forward and passionate, resulting from her deeply-felt opinions. She had not mastered the delicate art of conversation. She was not one for gossip or meaningless chatter. Once during a rehearsal she left a group of dancers discussing the prince's latest intrigue and walked to the circle of producers and musicians Rodrigo was in which as discussing indentured servitude, a subject talked about more and more frequently lately as the movement to end it gained popularity. The producers were defending the institution, one very emphatically, and Rodrigo watched warily as Morena began to tremble with rage, praying her newfound social instinct would override her passionate nature and keep her silent. His prayer was answered but it was a close call. If she were ever not so wise he and Antonio would be sure to create a public feeling attributing hr faux-pas to her isolated upbringing. Disguising his own anxiety he said: you'll do wonderfully. Remember, say nothing unless it's pointless, or unless you are sure you know what you are saying."

"Of course. Antonio has taught me to be so in a much less kindly way."

Mmm. Antonio. He was as impossible as ever. Although, to Morena's credit she took his incivilities gracefully, resulting not in friendship but in icy aloofness which was better than endless arguing.

"Let's not talk about him today."

"No, let's not."

Helene, the maid, came out then with breakfast.

"Thank you Helene. That will be all." Rodrigo said in a tone much like one he'd once used with Morena. Morena politely ignored the maid as Rodrigo wanted. He didn't know that she'd formed a close friendship with Helene, although she kept up the charade of being a merchant's daughter. She often helped Helene with her chores, finding a comfort in the familiar activities now that she didn't do them nearly so much. Rodrigo would be furious if he knew. She'd yet to see him angry except for their quarrel and his hatred of the Viscomte; she knew that his type would become almost unforgiving in anger.

They ate, and practiced. Morena changed and Rodrigo regretted seeing her emerge from her bedroom with her hair pinned up as it always was, although she was al lovely as ever. Even from the first time he saw her Rodrigo reflected that she was pretty and might be truly beautiful if not for her scanty presence and terribly sad eyes. After she left the manor and was introduced for the first time in nearly a decade to decent eating habits and was given a purpose for existing she'd turned into quite possible the loveliest woman he's ever met. He was not alone in this thinking; others agreed with him.

They walked to the park and ate on a blanket in the shade of a maple tree. Then he rented a boat and rowed down the sone river as they discussed many things.

"Your fine society is all very well I suppose," Morena said at one point, "but Rodrigo, is it really worth the effort? Do you truly have a single friend among the whole bunch? If you were to become a pauper tomorrow and die soon after of some horrible disease would only one of them so much as come to your funeral?"

She said all of this after a pause for contemplation in a thoughtful way she had, as if she knew it wasn't her place to speak but she felt that she had to anyway.

"Of course I have friends, for example Antonio, who would stand by me through anything. Calling yourself a 'friend' of someone while he has money and turning your back on him when he hasn't is a basic, but unspoken, tenant of society."

After a pause during which they both examined the riverbank he turned back to her and asked, "what about you, Morena, would you come to my funeral?"

Without thinking or knowing where what she said came from she answered, "No, because I wouldn't let you die. I'd sell myself back into servitude a dozen times over to give you the best doctors."

It is difficult to say who was more shocked at this profound response.

The conversation took another turn towards politics.

"Fraznia's hope lies in the crown prince," Rodrigo said, "his ideas are advanced and could pull the country out of the past and into the contemporary era. It's always moved slowly. It's the last country on the continent to retain indentured servitude and fifty years ago was a century behind the rest in abolishing slavery. Its ideas on economics are far outdated and the country can only survive so long as it is. But the king won't give an ounce of influence to his heir. There are rumors that he will remove the title of crown prince from his son and make someone else his heir to preserve old-fashioned ways."

And so their afternoon went. Much of it was spent in silence. At one point as Morena stare quietly at the scenery the glimmer of er hair caught his eye. He watched her quietly observing the park and its inhabitants and thought for the umpteenth time how unlike any other woman he'd ever met she was. Uneducated but possessing an inquisitiveness, desire to learn, and quick mind rarely found even among men. Her simultaneous shyness and independent spirit gave her an unusual charm. He knew her very well yet kept discovering new things about her and drawing new conclusions. Her simple, frugal previous lifestyle combined with her sudden introduction to elegance gave her a unique yet beautiful taste in clothes and such things. Most of all, she was so good. She never would admit it if he pressed her, and he never spoke of it to her, but Helene told him that more than once she'd taken in some hungry wanderer and given up her meal so Rodrigo would not have the added expense. Her compassion and patience were felt by and commented quietly on by nearly everyone in the opera. Her door and heart were open to even the most infamous of the dancers. She was the only person he'd ever felt privileged to know.

Morena had similar reflections as she stole glances at Rodrigo as he rowed, his musician's arms struggling, yet steadily pulling the oars. He too was unlike anyone she'd known. It was not only that he was cultured and educated ad despite this had come to treat her as an equal. He was king; he'd tried so hard to be less demanding in their lessons and more patient in rehearsals. He was the most intelligent person she'd ever met in many ways. Lately he'd given more and more not only of his pocketbook but of himself. He was considerate, compassionate, and had proven his goodness to her time and time again. She would never forgive herself if she disappointed him tonight.

It came time to enter the doors of the opera and for the pair to separate and take their respective places. Rodrigo ruefully and anxiously went to his office to settle some matters before going to the orchestra pit. Morena went to her dressing room to prepare herself. She had dancers and singing coming in and out constantly sometimes to help her with makeup, sometimes to lend her a handkerchief or talk to her and try to make her stop shaking. In the moments before the curtain rose she reasoned with herself that it was after all, not a very large part. Of course it was larger than what most–any singer began with but Rodrigo seemed so sure she could do it. She heard the orchestra tune up, the shaky A grating on her ears. She decided it was her least favorite note. Then, a moment later, the quick 6/8 time of the overture she knew so well. In her minds eye Morena pictured Rodrigo conducting in his earnest, brilliant way. She knew how much he wanted this opera to do well and was as nervous for him as he was for himself.

She waited. It was perhaps a half hour before her entrance, a half hour which seemed suspended in time. Every breath seemed to take an hour. To Morena, weeks had passed when she finally heard the music calling her on stage. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe. _I'm going to faint,_ she thought to herself. As she was grasping for consciousness, Richardran over to her, grabbed her shoulders, whispered harshly in her ear "deep breath NOW!" and pushed her on stage. _She's going to ruin all of us,_ he thought to himself, watching her walk wide-eyed onto the stage. The music stopped. She was to start singing. There wasn't a sound. The audience waited for this unfamiliar face to open her mouth and let something come out. Everyone back stage stared at her, hearts pounding, willing her to sing. In the orchestra pit the musicians held their bows and fingers ready, and Rodrigo waited, baton in the air, ready to bring it down after she sang her first measure. His eyes were closed, praying for her to sing. _Please, Morena. If not for yourself then for me, _he thought silently and intensely. As if on cue:

"_Ma scrozi torne arna._"

There was a collective sigh back stage and in the pit. In the pit several of the flutists played too loud, breathing sighs of relief. Rodrigo was relieved and ecstatic and proud. She was beautiful. Never had she sang so well. Never had he been so happy.


	12. Chapter 12

Once again I apologize for not updating for so long. In fact, here's a master apology for all the times it will take me a long time to update: I'M SORRY! Anyway I hope you all enjoy this chapter. It's certainly not my best so if you all think I should I'll go back and touch it up. I havent got much time so I can only give a couple shout-outs. (However,I will take time to say that all of you MUST see The Merchant of Venice with Al Pacino and Jeremy Irons. It is simply magnificent, superb, one of the best movies I've ever seen, although I don't agree with the whole homo-erotic thing, it just seems like modern audiences can't understand male friendship, and Joseph Fiennes is hot!)

**Breeze2**: Thank you so much for your review. I really appreciate it and I'm so glad your enjoying my story.

**josephine, smgirl, sealednectar, Clavel, KeepingTheMoon**: Thank you all so much

**IrishIsis**: I'm so glad you're enjoying it and awesome name!

**Amber Stag**: Thanks a lot. The plotline was long, long ago drawn from Cinderells but it evolved and collided with other stories, and here we are today.

**danie**: don't worry, I know where I'm going. There'll be plenty of tension, just you wait. Thanks for the review.

Too soon, the curtains closed. The opera was over. Morena received a standing ovation, a considerable accomplishment considering the relative size of her role. As she walked back to her dressing room nearly everyone she met congratulated her but it was as if she heard none of it. She was in a daze; only barely conscious. At last she reached her dressing room and locked the door behind her. Then she began to come back to earth and realized it was an effort to stand. She let herself fall against the door. Next she realized there was a tug at her heart and a weight in her stomach and she wept from the sheer brilliance of the experience: the singers, musicians, the music. Rodrigo's music was genius itself, to be able to participate in it was an honor she felt she didn't deserve.

Her tears spent, she collected herself. Morena now had only two thoughts. The first was that there was still a gala which she needed to prepare herself for. The second was that she needed to know what Rodrigo thought of her performance. She felt she did well, and others told her so, but she would not be content until she had it from Rodrigo. Concentrating on the former thought she took out her gown from the wardrobe. She still could not believe such a creation was hers. It was of the purest white silk with delicate gold floral embroidery. She fell in love with it when she tried it on and was encouraged by the dressmaker. "So few people can wear white," she had said, "but your one of the lucky ones who can. You ought to take advantage of it." Rodrigo happened to come in while she still had the dress on and succeeded in convincing her. Now she was glad he had. Morena washed and prepared herself.

Meanwhile, after dismissing the orchestra, Rodrigo also left for his dressing room to get ready for round two of this fateful evening. He, however, was purely elated. The night could not have gone better. The opera was wonderfully well received; the audience loved it; the musicians were flawless and the singers brilliant, especially one in particular. After those first tense moments, Morena sang better than she ever had. Her performance was pure and absolute brilliance, the essence of art. He was beyond being proud of her.

When he was ready he gathered up his things and set off for Morena's dressing room.

She was nearly ready. She sat in front of the mirror putting on her earrings and adding the final touches to her hair when there was a knock on her door.

"Who is it?" she asked, knowing who it was. She tensed as she waited to her the tone of his voice so that she could gage his opinion of her performance.

"Rodrigo."

The reply was neutral. She stood, looked at her appearance, repositioned a curl, smoothed her dress, and marched bravely to the door.

Rodrigo looked her in the eye, and she looked back, eyes wide, waiting for him to say...something. For a few minutes there was silence. His first impression was one which left him unable to move, speak, or breath. It wasn't a woman in front of him but some divine being or a vision: of all the women he'd seen none had ever looked so beautiful. As soon as this initial sensation passed, which took some time, he could see that she was desperate to learn what he thought. Coming back to himself, he enjoyed keeping her in suspense, so he kept his expression neutral and his eyes blank. Finally he pretended to frown.

"You." was all he could say.

"I?" she answered, shoulders coming forward and head receding, a defensive instinct her absently remembered seeing her employ frequently at the manor.

"You...will never cease to amaze me." He could keep from smiling no longer.

"I did well?" she asked smiling but still needing to hear him say it.

"I have never heard you sing so well. I have never heard anyone sing so well. Those first moments on stage took half a decade off of my life, but the rest added two. I don't think I've ever felt prouder."

By now he had taken her hands in his and both were beaming.

"And you," she said, "the opera was wonderfully received."

"Yes, so it seems. We'll find out for sure at the gala." This brought him back to himself, "which reminds me. We are only half through with this saga."

"I know, you don't have to remind me." she said, going back to the mirror.

"I've brought you a few things."

"You brought...?" She asked hesitatingly, stopping in her tracks. He held up the two packages she had not noticed he brought with him.

"You shouldn't have...you've done too much...you gave me tonight already."

"Don't tell me that. Here." He said, handing her the smaller one. Hesitantly she opened it. Two roses, one red and one white laid inside, cut for her to wear in her hair.

"Rodrigo, my two favorite flowers in the world."

"They'll go with your dress." He said simply.

"Thank you." she said, slipping them into her bun

"There's another.", he handed her the package, "they're a family heirloom, invaluable, no one has any idea how they were made, some leave it to fairy magic. They would be appropriate in an art museum at any rate. But I want you to have them."

"Good Heavens." she said softly, stunned, as she opened the box. Carefully wrapped in tissue paper was a pair of shoes. Shoes made of glass. She lifted one. It was pointed but not so triangular as to render the wearer unable to stand without her feet throbbing. It had a small heel, just tall enough to be fashionable. So beautiful, and all glass.

"One can't actually–"

"Wear them. Absolutely. They're indestructible."

"Rodrigo I can't possibly."

"Why not?"

"They're too expensive, too fine for me."

"Morena," he said gravely yet almost...tenderly, "after the way you sang tonight nothing is too good for you."

He looked her in the eye with the look that always made her do as he said. It was beseeching, gentle, and only slightly firm.

Slowly she slid into the shoes and tentatively stood, holding onto Rodrigo's hand for support until she stood erect. She walked over to the mirror, a smile starting. Her skirts were too long for the shoes to be visible, but when she lifted them the slippers glistened and shone brilliantly.

"They're beautiful." she said, mostly to herself.

_Not so much as you_ Rodrigo thought involuntarily. Out loud he said: "I'm glad you like them. You'll appreciate them more than anyone else I can think of. But now we should be going."

"Yes."

"Are you ready to face them?" he asked, only half joking.

"No," she answered seriously, "but I never will be I think, so I might as well brace myself for the lions den now."

"Do half as well as you've done so far and you'll be fine."

"But this is largely beyond my control." She said nervously.

"Don't worry." He whispered in her ear as he held out her cloak for her and she slipped in it.

"I'm sorry Rodrigo, if I disappoint you."

"You couldn't if you tried," he said honestly, "but don't try."

She laughed and walked out of the dressing room. Outside he offered her his arm. She looked at him, took a breath, ad slid her hand through his arm. Thus they walked out of the opera together.

Madame Beaumont was somewhat of a social climber. Her origins were unknown but one day she forever etched herself in the memories of Parissinians by hosting the first annual May gala. It was an extravagant affair, the likes of which the city had seldom before seen. Her husband was a wealthy nobody but somehow she made the acquaintances of several moderately significant people in the social world and this first gala was attended by nearly anybody who was anybody, and eventually it became a requirement for anyone of any significant or only moderate social standing to attend, making Madame Beaumont one of the leaders of societal circles. It was held in Madame's massive ballroom (Monsieur had died some years ago and left his house to his wife), which contained sparkling tile floors, an enormous marble fireplace and crown molding, murals done by the masters, twelve foot-high windows, and a chandelier which was as exquisite as it was huge. A great marble staircase led into this room (which, Morena noted, half of the houses in Collista would have fit into) down which all the arriving guests descended so that those present might be able to scrutinize them and decide whether or not to spend their time in speaking with the new arrival.

Morena and Rodrigo arrived at the house to hear the strains of a small orchestra, which played for the dancing, competing with the facetiously jovial tone of those already assembled. Rodrigo removed Morena's cloak and handed it along with his hat to the manservant stationed at the door. For a moment, only a moment before reaffirming that she preferred strained nerves to exhaustion and a sore body, Morena wished she was in that servant's place. Again Rodrigo offered his arm and Morena accepted it as they began to descend the stairs. Morena felt the eyes of many of the guests looking her up and down and she all but clung to Rodrigo. He imagined he could feel her pulse pounding against the inside of his elbow and he willed her to be strong, have courage, and even enjoy herself. He became increasingly anxious for her when they at last reached the bottom and several people walked away without so much as a nod of acknowledgment to them. He was appeased when several others came forward, old acquaintances whom he had not seen in many months.

"Maestro! Congratulations on your triumph." Said one with a dark beard who looked about twenty years Rodrigo's senior and spoke, to Morena's joy, with an Itolnian accent.

"Thank you kindly Count Narca. Wonderful to see you again, it's been far too long." he answered, shaking the man's hand congenially.

"You have been away from home far too long. We miss you in Itolni." the man responded in Itolnian.

"Indeed."

"But not without good cause I see," he turned to Morena and bowed slightly, "an honor Signorina."

Morena extended her hand as Rodrigo taught her to and the Count kissed it (and did not merely bow over it as was the Fraznian fashion) as Rodrigo said,

"Yes, allow me, Signorina Arzecci to introduce Count Narca, of Napil."

"Delighted to make your acquaintance, my lord."

"No, no. The pleasure is mine alone. To meet the woman who sings as an angel, no, better I am sure. Such a performance I have never witnessed in my life. No other artist, not even Rodrigo, has ever made me weep."

"Thank you indeed signor."

Similar introductions were made between the group which had approached Morena and Rodrigo when they entered. Both of them were congratulated over and over on their master works. Morena was introduced to Marquis and Earls and Barons and their wives and daughters so that she could only barely retain their names. She spoke with them for several minutes, relating her past and the story of how she met Rodrigo as Antonio had instructed her to, complimenting the ladies on their jewelry and hair, discussing the weather briefly with the entire group, until Rodrigo announced that he wished to introduce the Signorina Arzecci to more of the party. Count Narca and his wife, Morena's favorite of her new acquaintance, mentioned that they wished to introduce her to their son, who was also deeply affected by her performance, if only they could find him.

"As soon as we do we'll lead him to you Signorina." Countess Narca said.

"I look forward to it Countess."

"Please excuse us. There are others I would like to introduce to Signorina Arzecci."Rodrigo said.

"Certainly. We will talk more later Rodrigo. An honor Signorina." Count Narca said, kissing her hand again in parting."

"Well done." Said Rodrigo as soon as they were out of anyone's earshot.

"Was it really?" Morena asked eagerly.

"Would I lie to you?"

"Of course not."

"You made small talk like an expert."

"Hating every word. But the Count Narca and his wife seemed to be kind people."

"Very. I've known them all my life. Their son is your age and at University. I hadn't known him to appreciate the arts before. But if art was religion there would not have been a person within a mile of the opera you wouldn't have converted."

"Thank you Rodrigo."

Morena was introduced to dozens of Counts, Barons, Marquis, Viscounts, Lords and their wives, sons, and daughters, more than she could possibly remember. Some she was acquainted with already, others were new to her. Some impressed her as kind and spoke of extending invitations to her in the future, others were rude and ignored the nobody from the isolated wilds of Itolni.

Despite the small talk that Morena hated, she was enjoying herself meeting these new people and being able to hold her own among them. She almost could not believe that a year ago at this very moment she perhaps helping the cook tidy up the kitchen for the morning, exhausted filthy, and sad, almost hopeless, or else fast asleep on her pallet in her tiny garret, savoring her few hours of rest, dreading the morning. Here she was now, an overnight opera star, shining and glittering in her silks and diamonds, which Rodrigo rented for her, looking as fine and cosseted as any woman in the room (and, Rodrigo told her, more lovely than any other woman in the room, in reply to which Morena could only blush and change the subject).

At last, the necessary introductions having been made, Rodrigo turned to her and asked, "have we arrived at the fateful moment then? Shall I ask you to dance?"

Morena laughed, "what kind of a question is that? It's as if I'm asking myself to dance. Surely this isn't the proper way to lure a lady onto the dance floor.'

"All right then. May I have the honor Signorina?" he asked, extending his arm.

"Of course Signor."

They walked arm-in-arm to join the other couples dancing. She didn't notice at the time, but many months later Morena would recollect with tears in her eyes that the orchestra was playing a piece by Bertelli. He bowed, she curtsied, they held each other in the appropriate position, Morena took a breath and tried to remember the steps he had carefully instructed to her, and began moving. It was as much fun as it was practicing in his study or her sitting room. He was graceful, yet firm in guiding them both, she moved lightly and in perfect rhythm; they were a good pair. A feeling of euphoria at last began to descend on her. She'd done it. She'd done everything: sang, socialized, danced, all of it perfectly. She was fooling everyone. This was life. This was happiness. Dancing with a dear, dear friend whom one had just made very proud and happy by whom one had been given a chance at real living which one seized upon was the epitome of happiness and fulfillment.

"It's finally beginning to hit me." She said.

"What?" he asked.

"Everything. Everything I've done tonight. I was on stage! And I didn't faint or scream or cry! And I sang, and I sang well, didn't I?"

"Superbly well."

"And now I'm here and I actually blend in. I think people really believe I'm one of them, except for the fact that I sing–"

"But most like you enough to forgive you that."

"Yes. They've no idea who I really am."

"This is who you really are Morena. You're not the quivering servant of a rich man's manor any longer. You're a woman who can command an audience on stage and charm a group of people off stage. The world is at your feet now if you want it to be."

The music ended and the orchestra began playing one of Rodrigo's own pieces. Nearly all of the crowd burst into polite laughter and light applause. Rodrigo rolled his eyes slightly and bowed politely to Morena.

"I never dance to my own music. It makes me nervous. I apologize."

"Don't Rodrigo, it's quite all right. Can we come back later?"

"As much as you like."

She smiled, truly happy. If only she could shake the haunting feeling that was pursuing her. It was a feeling similar to having forgotten something, but not being able to remember what. She'd had it since she'd left her dressing room with Rodrigo. But she hadn't forgotten anything. So what was bothering her so much?

He began to escort her away from the dance floor but their path was intercepted by Count Narca, this time accompanied by a younger man who looked a younger version of his father, with the same brown eyes, tan skin, dark hair, and strong facial features.

"Ah! My friends, I have found you. This time I bring my son. Signorina, may I present Niccolo Di Narca, my only son and heir." This last word was said with a slight emphasis which did not, according to the natural rhythm of the sentence, belong there."

Niccolo eagerly took the hand Morena extended and, like his father kissed it warmly. "Truly an honor Signorina," he said then, looking her directly in the eye, "your performance tonight was exceptional. Never before have I been so moved, so touched." He said expressively.

"You are too kind Signor." she said, "_what beautiful eyes he has!_" she thought.

"Not kind enough. And you Signor Di Divezi. A pleasure to see you again. An astounding opera you wrote."

"Thank you." was all Rodrigo could say before Niccolo began again to Morena:

"I wonder, Signorina, if you would favor me with a dance. I would like to speak further with you."

Morena looked discreetly at Rodrigo from the corner of her eye. His expression was politely serious rather than encouraging but he nodded ever so slightly.

"Of course Signor. The honor is mine." she said truthfully. He offered his arm and she accepted it.

Rodrigo walked with the count in the opposite direction.

"Things are turbulent in Fraznia Rodrigo, are they not?" the count said, "not like in our blessed, serene Itolni."

"How do you mean?"

"This situation in parliament which is manifesting itself in the streets and drawing rooms of the country."

"I've had little time for politics lately."

"Is that what art does to you then? Draws you into you own world so that you can ignore the real one?"

"Not quite. It makes the real one more bearable by allowing the artist a temporary escape."

"Is that why so many artist are mad then? Because they become so dissatisfied with reality after living in their own personal realities."

"Many scientists go mad as well and they deal closely with what you would consider 'reality'"

"Yes, well, what I mean is this situation concerning indentured servitude. More and more motions are being made to open debate on taking the preliminary steps in abolishing it. It has the country erupting. There are random acts of violence against indentured servants by those in favor of te institution, as if it were the servants' fault that it was being questioned, and in some places the servants are retaliating, believing they have supporters in high places now."

"There were acts of violence against indentured servants already." Rodrigo said thoughtfully.

"Perhaps so, but not like now. All people will talk about is the institution. Every dinner party succumbs to a violent debate on the subject. It is tearing the country apart at the seams, so it appears. The King himself is, of course in favor of it, while the Prince, silently, never even admitting it let alone doing anything, is against it. I worry for Fraznia."

"Fraznia is and always has been stubborn. It has gotten itself into trouble before and will do so again. I say let it run its own course. The institution cannot last for ever in a world where it has been abolished everywhere else."

"I hope it is that simple. But now I see my wife eyeing me slyly. She wants me to dance with her. You must excuse me. I will talk to you later my friend."

Among the dancers Morena and Niccolo were pursuing their own conversation. He asked about her life until then and her art, etc, before continuing on.

"How do you like to occupy your time then?"

"I'm working nearly all the time. If I am not rehearsing then Signore Di Divezi is teaching me or practicing with me."

"You spend a great deal of time with the Baron."

"Yes. I had, still have, much to learn and little time to learn it. He is an excellent teacher."

"You're the only one to think so. He's very pleasant but apparently not so agreeable in lessons. He had never been able to keep a student before you. You must be very patient or very good or both. It must be both." His eyes were steady and warm and riveting.

"We share a passion for music. That is all. I posses far too little of the qualities you mention."

"I have danced nearly two dances with you now, and on that firm ground must disagree."

Morena blushed.

"Did you never meet anyone in that isolated part of Itolni you're from. You blush at the slightest compliment but I find it impossible to believe that everyone you meet does not say such things."

She blushed again, he laughed, a charming laugh.

"I shall change the subject then, if it makes you so uncomfortable. Let's see. We've discussed your past, your artistic inclinations, your accomplishments, pondered the number of people in attendance and the beauty of the ballroom. What is there left?"

"What about yourself?"

"Let's not discuss myself, that subject will bore you. My life has had none of the excitement of yours."

_You have no idea_, Morena thought, but said, "Try me."

"Let's see. I am heir to the title of Count Di Narca a prosperous name but not–"

"So much as Signor Di Divezi's. I know."

"Precisely. But it is a name that carries a proud reputation. I attend the University at Sina. Attended, I only recently graduated."

"Congratulations."

"Thank you. Now I suppose I'll live out my days in the pursuit of...Lord knows what..._knowledge _let's say." He said mockingly, "I shall sample some of every kind of learning philosophy and art."

"How...healthy."

"That's an odd comment. How healthy?"

"Because it involves no physical exertion, so you will not work yourself to an early grave. And because it is an impersonal existence, you will be only a spectator of the fruits of other people's lives, so there will be no emotional taxation."

"Yes but I intend to _live_ as well.I intend to find someone with whom I might be...personal...as you say."

"I should think less of you if you didn't"

"And I should be devastated if you thought less of me."

Oh dear. What was the proper thing to say to that. She had been trying to steer him away from those kinds of comments but he insisted on going back to them. This man...boy?...was very strange and rather unnerving yet-charming. She couldn't help but like him despite the discomfort he caused her. He was an interesting person to talk to with informed, developed thoughts. Yet although he was four years older than her he seemed very much a boy. He had clearly never been pushed, driven by necessity or some inner passion.

Fortunately the song ended and she was about to claim fatigue and seek out Rodrigo when she caught sight of that very same person. He was standing near the bottom of the staircase talking to someone, to a woman, an attractive woman. She looked to be about thirty, she was tall, lean, and wore a green dress which, although it had a lower-than-average neckline, complimented her red hair perfectly. She and Rodrigo appeared to be very familiar with one another. Both were smiling broadly and she said something which made Rodrigo bend slightly with laughter. Even from far off, Morena detected a look in Rodrigo's eyes; it was admiring yet tender.

Morena took all of this in with scrutinizing eyes and felt a strange, new emotion. Suddenly she didn't want to be near Rodrigo. He obviously did not want to be near her. After all, she had only given life to his opera and exceeded his expectations. She turned again to Niccolo, smiled beautifully, and said instead:

"Would you mind taking a stroll about the gardens with me?"

" I would love to."

Rodrigo had been standing alone near the staircase, looking at the dancers, subconsciously scanning through them, looking for Morena, when he heard a voice wish him good evening. That voice. How could such a familiar voice be so elusive? It was a voice that carried with it hundreds of memories, if only he could put his finger on which memories. Wait...not so long ago, he was nineteen, twenty. He had been in love and thrown over. He was heartbroken. Another woman had appeared, older than he. She did not take the place of his love but guided him through and out of his memory. An invaluable friend.

"Contessa Machia!" he exclaimed, overjoyed, turning to face her.

"Baron Di Divezi." she replied coolly, as ever.

"How are you my dear Countess?" He asked, kissing her hand, completely overcome.

"Well enough. I suppose I need not bother to return the question."

"I suppose not. I am as happy as a man can be tonight, especially now." he said laughing.

"It's good to see you again this way. I had heard that you were wandering the continent, unhappy and unproductive."

"You might say I had a brooding spell I suppose. But forgive me for my mistake, I do not address the Contessa Machia anymore but the Contess-"

"No. There is no mistake," she said with a grave edge to her voice, "I divorced my husband only a few months ago. I was hoping I would not have to tell you. I know you never approved of such...such breaking of social rules. But I could not take my husband anymore. I hope-"

"Do not sound so apologetic," he said more seriously than before, "I had heard my share of stories about you and your husband but took them only for rumors. If what I heard was true then I would have encouraged you to get out years ago."

"Thank you Rodrigo. There are others who are not so understanding."

"They are those who do not deserve to understand or know you."

"Thank you Rodrigo. You always were so kind. You don't mind if I call you by your first name do you? Not very long ago we were so familiar with one another.'

"Of course not Bendetta." He said quietly.

"Congratulations certainly are in order." She said, more gaily, after a pause.

"Thank you indeed."

"Be sure to extend my congratulations to your little protege."

"Morena. Yes of course."

"Rodrigo, I was thinking," she said with a smile creeping onto her lips, "do you remember when-"

So the night progressed. As it turned out Morena and Rodrigo spent very little time with one another. After Morena strolled through the gardens Niccolo introduced her to several of his friends...more names for her to remember. As for Rodrigo, he spent the night with his old friend, catching up on the years. He and Morena never did have that other dance as they planned. But each enjoyed the evening very much on their own. However, Morena never could shake the feeling of something forgotten. Instead, it seemed to grow and worsen every minute, then every second until she could think of nothing else. Strangely, this malady had reproduced itself to a much lesser degree in Rodrigo's mind. He felt that there was something missing, something left undone, though he didn't let it bother him.

Eventually the night ended and Rodrigo bid Bendetta farewell and left in search of Morena. Little was said as he retrieved her belongings and helped her with her cloak. But in the coach on the way home he asked, smiling,

"Did you enjoy yourself my friend?"

"Immensely." she answered happily.

"You spent a good deal of time with Niccolo Di Narca."

"I did. He is a very kind, interesting young man. Excellent company. I noticed you with a very attractive woman in a green dress. Who is she?"

"Her name is Bendetta Di Machia. You'll recall Marianinna. Well, when she married someone else I was absolutely devastated. I happened to be introduced to Bendetta at a dinner party and it didn't take long before I was pouring my soul out to her. She helped me through that bout of depression like a nurse with a terminally ill patient, and cured me too. She was an exceedingly good friend. She married a foreign nobleman when I was twenty-one. I haven't seen her since. But for years I've heard terrible stories about her life with him. I found out tonight that she has divorced him."

"How brave of her. Is she the only divorced lady in the city?"

"She very well could be."

"What independence! Will you introduce me to her sometime?"

"Gladly. No doubt you'll run into her yourself sometime at a dinner party or ball."

"Will I be invited to those things now?" she asked excitedly.

"More than you'll be able to attend, judging by appearances tonight."

"They reached Morena's flat and Rodrigo stepped out of the carriage to unlock her door for her."

"Helene's asleep. Just leave the cloak on the chair." she said as he helped her off with it.

"I'll see you tomorrow then. I shall come by in the afternoon after I speak with the board at the opera. Expect good news and," he leaned close to her ear and whispered, "_a check_."

Morena smiled, "I certainly do look forward to it then. I can begin paying you back."

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

"You always say that."

"It's a good philosophy. I'll leave you now. Good nigh Morena."

"Good night Rodrigo."

As he walked out the door he could not help but turn and say once more, "Morena, you sang, and danced, and looked like an angel tonight."

"Thank you Rodrigo."

"Good night."

Morena shut the door, the feeling of forgetting becoming unbearable at those words. If she had not been so tired she would not have managed to fall asleep, so strong was it now. But sleep she did, the sleep of the restless and disturbed.

Around dawn she awoke. It was the unnamed feeling that jolted her awake. In the name of all that was good what was it? Drowsily Morena noted that everything was in its place. She turned over and thought vaguely that she must get some sleep, because she would see Rodrigo tomorrow. From a land bordering between sleep and waking she wondered why it mattered so much whether or not she would be rested enough to interact with him tomorrow. Just as she was going to fall asleep again the answer to her question came upon her from her own mind, as unexpected and spontaneous as a falling star:

_Because I love him_.

As she jolted back into complete wakefulness when she finally acknowledged this emotion which had been gathering for months, the feeling finally disappeared.


	13. Chapter 13

Hi everyone! I'm in a rush so no shoutouts today, just a great big THANK YOU to EVERYONE who has read this especially my REVIEWERS. You guys are awesome and so kind and sweet.I apologize that this chapter is so short, I originally intended to make it longer but then there was too much stuff happening at one time. I hope to have the next chapter up soon, it will probably be short too though. Sorry. As this chapter stands, it's just a filler. Don't feel obligated to review, but I certainly don't mind if you do : >) Love you all!

Morena slept not another wink that night. For hours she sat up in bed in the dark, able to only think of one thing: she was in love. She had been in love for so long. How long? She didn't know. Her love had sprung, grown, and blossomed without her having any idea of its existence. It was possible she loved him even before she knew him, for she loved the music before she even knew the musician. She loved every atom of his existence. She loved his eyes, his voice, his effort to be more patient and considerate, his goodness which he revealed in increasing amounts, what she knew was a loving nature, his hands while they were playing, and she loved his passion. It had been a long time since she had had someone to love and she did so now deeply. She too had a naturally loving nature.

After the shock of her discovery wore of, the shock of the tragedy of her situation came to her. She loved him wholly, deeply, passionately, and he...did not. He had given her no sign, no hint, nothing, of any affection besides that which she already knew he possessed for her. Her mind began to wrap around new thoughts: how she could make him love her. Soon she stopped. So what if se did succeed in making him return her affection? He could never marry her. True, she was better off as an opera singer than an indentured servant, but nevertheless, the match was unacceptable. Morena, as an opera singer, was only acceptable to the fraction of society that did accept her because of her association with Rodrigo. As it was, things were tense, though bearable, for both of them. If they were to court or marry it might very well push society off the brink and make it reject both of them. If he ever did marry it would have to be to a wealthy and titled woman. It was only fitting. Rodrigo deserved someone from a like background after all, someone who he could relate to and who would understand him.

That was the obstacle. Yes, they were wonderful friends as they were, but Morena was not the type of girl Rodrigo could spend his life with. They were from different backgrounds and he related to her differently than to other women he knew. To Morena, there was still so much about his world that she didn't understand, and although she was learning rapidly, she would always be a laborer's daughter and a servant, both of which set her apart, however subtly, from other women he knew. Despite the months of lessons, she knew she would always seem more coarse and ignorant compared to the other women he knew. She was ashamed thinking that whenever he thought back about her, he would always have those memories of her in poor servants' garb, eyes lowered in respect and fear, and others, that Contessa for instance, finely attired, eyes lowered to allure. After several hours of sitting in the dark she reached a conclusion: no matter how much she loved him, or how well their souls were suited to one another, he could never marry her and would never love her; she was hopeless.

Throughout these dark hours she wept. She was no stranger to tears but it had been months since she had shed them, and she never did shed tears quite like these. She loved him so dearly (how strange she had managed to hide this from herself) and could only watch as he went through life alone or worse, with someone else. What would she do? Every day she would be tortured, trapped between the heaven of being near him, and the hell of knowing he would never be hers. She could leave and put a painful but final end to it. No, even as she thought it she knew it was impossible. Singing made her happy, but more importantly, it made Rodrigo happy. He had plans for her. Besides, where would she go?

Years of hardship had made Morena practical. Thus, she took a breath, swallowed her emotions (this is an understatement; what she felt was deeper than fickle emotion) and although it was barely dawn she rose, and dressed. This being the business of less than half and hour she began to tidy her room. She went through every drawer, every shelf, and every container, some more than once, before she finished. This done, she commenced to clean her receiving room. Years of doing chores while others were still fast asleep taught her to be silent and, with the advantage of Helene being a heavy sleeper, Morena rearranged every item of furniture but the piano. Then she dusted everything right down to said piano's innards and, finding it still early in the morning, put together a cleaning solution and washed the carpets. It was when Morena was nearly done with this task that Helene woke up, saw her mistress hunched over in a most uncomfortable position, and rebuked her heartily, saying that the Signor would have one or both of their heads if he knew what she were doing. Morena was forced onto the sofa while Helene made breakfast.

So much for her old fallback. Work, endless, exhausting work was always what she turned to when she could not face something even if it made her miserable. For six years she used it to suppress memories and hopes of being loved, she tried to do the same thing, but now even that was taken away from her, ironically by the person who was causing it. All she could do was reflect, confront the feelings that were torturing her.

The day passed slowly. Hours passed slowly. She tried to read, to sew, to sing, to play the violin, to play the piano. Nothing made time move faster. Yet the hours did pass. Morning turned to afternoon which turned to early evening. Yet he did not come. Rarely did a day go by when Rodrigo did not visit, if only for a few minutes to have her sing some scales. And last night he said he would come by today. Yet he didn't. Perhaps, after all, this was a good thing. Perhaps it was better that she see less of him, especially today. Yet never had she wanted to be close to him so much as today. Finally she relented and did nothing. She reclined on the couch so that she had a clear view of the window facing the street. She alternated staring at the ceiling and out the window, hoping to see him ringing the bell.

She must have dozed off for she was suddenly aware of a chime. The doorbell! She sat up as her hands flew to her hair and patted a few strands back in place. She glanced at the clock. 6:00. She stood, sat, stood again, and was about to sit when Helene finally opened the door. All she could do was breath deeply and look as she always did when he stopped by.

"Good evening Helene." He said congenially, more so even than usual, as he handed her his hat and gloves.

"Good evening Sir."

"Is your mistress...ah! Here she is. The continent's newest and brightest star."

Morena couldn't help but beam when she saw his well-loved face, and heard his equally-loved voice. He walked toward her and her heart beat faster. In her mind's eye, just for a half of moment, she saw him drawing her to him, imagined his hand against her cheek, her cheek upon his chest, then came back to what was really there. Instead, he extended his arms and put them fraternally on her shoulders, not an uncommon gesture between the two of them. His eyes shone with happiness. He was still proud of her.

"Fraznia's greatest jewel."

A bright, blessed thought crossed her mind. Perhaps his love was not impossible for her to win. He was looking at her happily, in such a way that she never saw him look at anyone else. He was proud of her. He _knew_ her. Well. Maybe in time...

"I have news to please you. First thing's first. Your compensation for last night's triumph."

He handed her a sleek envelope and motioned for her to open it. She did so to find a check enclosed. She nearly dropped it when she read it. It was far more than what she expected, and Antonio had led her to expect a goodly amount.

"Are you pleased?"

"Am I pleased? I don't know what to say. Such a sum! Are you sure it's mine?"

"Perfectly. It's the crowning point of your new life."

Not quite. But close.

"That's not all. I bring good news from the board of directors: a contract for the next two years. It includes a raise and a monthly salary."

"A what!"

"You heard me." he held out a pen which she signed gladly and eagerly. Reimbursing him would still take years, but not so many as she had thought. Until then she could pay her own rent, buy her own clothes, pay her own servant. She could keep herself. Everything looked better than it did an hour ago. Her future was ever improving. Especially since Rodrigo might after all...

"That's where you were all day then? At the opera negotiating with the board?"

"No. Only for about an hour this morning. I spent the day with Bendetta, in the park and at her home."

Her vision blurred slightly, "Oh?"

"Yes," he became earnest suddenly, "You know Morena, I told you last night that Bendetta and I became close friends after Marianinna. We were very close in fact. Nothing ever happened, but perhaps with time, if she were not pushed into that marriage...we played around the edges you might say. Perhaps we would have become more serious, more open about what we each suspected we felt. It was nearly a decade ago, but perhpas– Morena are you all right? What is it?"

Just like that it was over. The hope and complete happiness she so briefly clung to were torn away. The room spun, her legs wouldn't support her and she fell, fortunately onto the couch, before Rodrigo's outstretched arms could catch her. Yes, perhaps it was not to late for him and Bendetta. In a few years society would not be too appalled if he took a divorcee. It was still infinitely better than an opera singer. She was about to faint, but stopped by convincing herself that her hope had been foolish and therefore better to be without it.

"I'm fine. I suppose I'm a little worn out from last night."

"Helene is paid to notice these things." he said as he pushed a pillow behind her. He was truly concerned.

"Don't blame Helene. I've been fine all day. Perhaps I should rest now though."

"Yes. All the better, I had to leave in a moment anyway, I'm having dinner with the Contessa."

She inhaled sharply to endure the fistful of salt poured on her gaping wound.

"What is it?" he asked, alert and excited again.

"Nothing, I'm fine."

"I ought to send for my doctor."

"No, don't waste his time or your money, no, even worse, it's my money now. I'm fine, just tired."

"Fine then. But I'll leave his address and instructions with Helene to send for him if you aren't better within the hour."

"Fine. Have a wonderful evening with your Contessa."

"Promise me you'll rest now."

"I promise." she rose to go to her room.

"Wait, let me help you. If you fall again it'll be on hard ground and then no entreaties will stop me from sending for my doctor." He motioned as if to carry her into her bedroom, which he had never even set foot in before. Today of all days...

"Rodrigo honestly! There were many times I felt a thousand times worse than I do now and still worked a 16 hour day. Now have a nice evening with your friend." she hoped that one day she could mean that.

"All right then. You rest." he said, seizing her hand before he went to retrieve his things.

"Rodrigo." he turned, "thank you so much. For the contract and...everything."

He smiled sincerely, " be glad your feeling poorly. I was determined to get a few scales out of you before I left."

They smiled across the room at each other and then

"Good night." He said.

"Good night."


	14. Chapter 14

My goodness gracious! It's been ages since I've updated! I am so very, very sorry to all my wonderful readers and exceptional reviewers. I'm applying to college and I'm so busyyyyyyyy! It's horrible and I'm so awfully, awfully sorry. I hope everyone enjoys this chapter and, more importantly, has an excellent Thanksgiving.

Time went on. Weeks passed and became months. The first of these weeks were complete misery for Morena. She began work in earnest at the opera. She saw Rodrigo every day. He saw Bendetta more and more frequently, until his daily visits at Morena's flat became biweekly at best. Morena got to know her as well and found that, under other circumstances, she would have quite liked her. As it was, they could only be pleasant acquaintances. Rodrigo remained rough and hard when he was working, though still a far cry from the way he was when she first met him. At that time she was terrified when he instructed her but terror hd been a familiar feeling and she managed to push it to the back of her mind and let admiration and gratitude dominate her feelings. Now his roughness made her nervous and aggravated with herself. These emotions too she managed to hide, but not without rebuking herself constantly: "Why can't you keep better tempo?", "Why can't you sight read better?", and occasionally, "Why does everyone tell you your so talented? You're a sorry excuse for an artist."

Nevertheless, time is a powerful and experienced doctor. Morena learned to live with the pain of her situation until she managed to put it towards the back of her mind and begin again to enjoy their friendship. This is not to say that our heroine "got over" her mentor, but rather she adapted to the pain and loneliness of her situation not comfortably, but tolerably.

So, a year, several pounds heavier thanks to better eating habits, and still infinitely happier than when she first met him, she was madly and truly in love with him and not only managed to hide it but managed to live with it. She learned to be satisfied with their friendship, knowing it was far better than many would ever experience.

Meanwhile she continued to be a success in Parissinia, both on the stage and in social circles. The young Count di Narca, especially, she found to be a very good friend. He was ever smiling, ever attentive, ever ready to offer his arm, and a frequent caller to her little flat. She appreciated his friendship enormously, but prayed to heaven all he wanted was friendship because already she decided that if she could never have Rodrigo she would never have anyone.

So time went on as it always will. Morena corresponded with her brother steadily and he kept her informed of all the happenings in their family and in Colista. He was doing well himself and had even made a new friend; a lady friend. He did not say so outright but Morena could read between her dear brother's lines. They were both young and he knew it, but Morena wished him more luck than she had when the time came. Most of his letters were merely chatty, with little news to communicate. But in early October he sent news Morena was not, and never would be, prepared for. He sent this news entirely without warning, but Morena knew something was amiss when she saw his letter was only one sheet long. Normally he wrote long, glorious letters that would keep her occupied for the better part of an hour. But this one was short, urgent, to the point.

_My Dearest Sister, _

_The news I must communicate to you is not good news. I wish I did not have to. I especially wish it were not so abrupt. Forgive me for not giving you warning but please understand that I had none myself, now that I have my own flat near the docks. You see, mother has remarried. Her milliner's shop has been doing increasingly well and she attracts some wealthy clientele. One was a merchant by the name of Origo passing through the area, looking for a gift for his daughters three months ago. He kept coming back and buying more hats for every female he knew, and some, I'm convinced, he made up. Last week he asked her for her hand and they were married quickly and quietly. I had no idea of this man's existence until very recently, and then I knew of him only as one of mother's clients. It would not be so bad if it were not so abrupt, nor if this man seemed to have any goodness in him, if he did not seem so disgusted by our brothers and sisters, nor if I had any reason to believe that mother has even a little affection for this man. But mother has become so greedy and I know she agreed only for his purse. He seems infatuated with her, but we both know that infatuation does not last. His daughters refuse to associate with us. The eldest, Anna, is married and living elsewhere in the country. The younger, Louisa, is living with her. Mother has already closed her shop and will move soon to her new husband's home in Napli with our other siblings. And this, my dear, good sister, is what bothers me most, mother's abandonment of the fruit of not her labors, but yours. It was with the money raised on your head that mother created that shop, and now she has carelessly cast it aside. I wish mother had discussed this with any one of us children. I truly believe there was a time she would have. You remember how she was all those years ago...but what good is dwelling on the past. I am torn between going with mother to watch over our brothers and sister about whom I am truly worried, and staying here to distance myself from this disaster and seek refuge with friends new and old. Be strong, my dear sister. I remain,_

_Your loving brother._

No, no it couldn't be. How could she? How could her mother be so thoughtless, so selfish? How could she make a marriage of convenience to a shallow, greedy, selfish man after being married to Morena's father? How could she do this to her children? It would be better to have no father than a step-father who resented your existence. How could her mother do this to her after her six years of slavery? Her mind was in turmoil with a thousand thoughts zig-zagging across it at once. When she was more collected she managed to think of herself. She realized how odd it was that she had a new father and two new sisters. She doubted that any of them knew of her existence, her mother was unlikely to mention the daughter who had become such a disappointment. Nevertheless, Morena was dismayed, to say the least, that all of this happened so suddenly and without consulting anyone.

Things weren't always like this, Morena reflected. Once the seven of them were a family. Everyone down to the babies were consulted on everything. Her parents acted primarily with the good of the children in mind. Money was never plentiful but as a child Morena was not aware of wanting for anything. Her father's death changed everything. Her mother turned to Morena to be the other adult in the family. Suddenly there were mouths to feed and no way to feed them. Her mother thought of nothing but money. So one day a wealthy foreign gentleman passing through the port town noticed a girl doing odd jobs at the docks. She did them eagerly, quickly, and efficiently. He talked to her in his tongue and found her to be proficient in it. He made an offer to the girl's mother to buy her. The girl didn't want to go, but er mother convinced her. And so Morena and her life were changed for ever. Her family was fed at her expense, yet she didn't mind and never complained for she loved her family more than anything. With this thought in mind Morena, for the first time, almost hated her mother. Morena had sacrificed so much for her family, yet her mother was willing to give herself, without a thought for her children, to the first rich man who showed an interest. How dare she! And how dare she feel about Morena the way she did!

These feelings, combined with those Morena had been struggling with lately, resulted in a very excited state which Rodrigo found her in. It was in the afternoon when he approached Morena's door. He had spent the morning with Bendetta and thought he would stop by to check on Morena. This is what he told himself but in his heart of hearts he felt guilty over not visiting her in nearly a week. Guilty and something else he couldn't put his finger on. He had been so busy catching up with Bendetta. She was good for him. She brought back so many memories and she was delightful to be with. Sophisticated, cool, witty, wonderful. Many would consider her the perfect woman, if it weren't for that divorce. But after all, he wasn't one to be bothered by things like that. Perhaps it was time...

He stopped in mid-thought as he came within view of Morena's house. Morena had been acting somewhat differently lately. She was a bit quieter, more nervous when he was teaching her, more eager than ever to please, yet still Morena. He supposed she was just tired from all the rehearsing. Or else perhaps from count Narca's son who never seemed to pass a day without calling on her. Of course, who was he to talk? Yet somehow he found himself liking this young count less and less.

Helene let him in and Rodrigo handed her his hat and gloves as he said joyfully: "Morena! My great and talented friend! How go things today?"

He was surprised to look at her and not find the usual gentle smile and gleaming eyes. Instead a pained expression and eyes that he could tell had been moist with tears for a little while now greeted him. His smile fell immediately and he hurried to sit beside her on the couch.

"What on earth is the matter?" he asked earnestly, putting a worried hand on hers.

"I've received a letter from Antonio." she answered angrily showing it to him. He had only to scan it to understand the situation. He shut his eyes in pain and sympathy for Morena. Despite the treatment she received from her mother he knew she clung to the memory of different days when she was loved by those close to her. After all, she only wanted to be valued as any other human being did. And though he valued her more than almost anyone, he was not mother and father to her, only friend. Close friend. Friend who wanted desperately to do anything he could to soothe the excited bundle of nerves next to him.

"Next thing my brother will right to me is that she's having any document burned that proves I ever existed."

"Morena I'm sorry."

"I know you are. I knew you'd understand as soon as you read that. You know me well enough."

"I wish I could be your family for you."

"No," she said quickly, "I wouldn't want that."

"Well thanks very much."

"No! That wasn't what I meant," she sounded so tired, too tired and world-weary for nineteen.

"I know." He said, gently putting his hand behind her head. She tried not to show how his touch caused her heart to beat faster and almost made her tremble, and fortunately was saved by a knock at the door. Morena looked frantically for her handkerchief before Rodrigo gave her his. A moment later entered the young Count of Narca.

"Well, this is doubly pleasant" he said, "Morena and the Baron at once. How delightful!"

He said, and took Morena's hand. "Will the Baron be joining us Morena?"

"Joining us?" she asked.

"For dinner. We had planned to go out. Did you forget?"

"Oh! Of course. No, I didn't forget, well, only momentarily. My mind was on other things."

"Yes, I thought you looked a bit piqued. Are you all right?" he asked, putting a hand on her shoulder.

Rodrigo was strangely torn between a desire to laugh and to knock the boy's hand off. He pitied him and was angered by him at the same time. On the one hand he was clumsily but earnestly trying to comfort her, as if he could begin to understand what the matter was. On the other hand he was going to far, he had only recently met Morena after all. Yet perhaps, Rodrigo thought, an idea forming, perhaps he should give the young man time. With that:

"Thank you for the invitation but I have dinner plans of my own tonight. In fact I ought to be going now, you both have a wonderful evening." he said congenially, comfortingly taking Morena's hand once more.

"Have a good evening Rodrigo." he heard Morena weakly say as he left.

"Is there anything the matter?" Morena heard this through a haze of disappointment.

"No, nothing. I was just feeling a bit poorly."

"I'm terribly sorry. Is there anything I can do?'

"You can take me to dinner." she said managing to smile. "Just give me a moment to get ready."

"You look lovely as you are."

"You're a dear."

So they went out and enjoyed each other's company. Yet Morena couldn't help feeling despondent throughout the evening and had to paste on a smile most of the time. She was grateful when the evening was over and she returned home. She was obliged however to offer her young friend coffee which he gleefully accepted. They both sat on her couch, conversing about nothing in particular when it dawned on Morena that he was fidgeting, and indeed had been fidgeting quite nervously for some time now.

"Are you all right?"

"Perfectly. Hardly ever better. However, Morena, Signorina Arzecci, there is something I wish to ask you."

He had gone beyond fidgeting, he was turning quite pale now.

"What is it? You're making me nervous. Out with it!"

"Signorina," he said mostly to himself, taking a deep breath. Suddenly Morena realized that he was on one knee on the floor in front of her, her right hand in one of his, his other hand holding a truly magnificent ring, "I-I would like to a-a-ask the honor of y-your b-becoming m-m-m-my w-_wife_."

There was a moment of shock in which Morena could say nothing. Then the only thing she could get out was: "What?"

It was a rhetorical question but the poor boy went on stuttering out a reply again before Morena regained her senses. Then, all she could feel was remorse and pity for the poor, dear young man in front of her.

"Please get up."

"May I have an answer."

"Oh," she sighed

He needed no words, the look in her eyes spoke for her. Despondently and confusedly he rose from his knees, feeling very foolish.

"I'm so sorry." she sighed, guilitily.

"I thought-"

"If I misled you or ever gave you false hope I assure you it was unintentional."

"But-why?"

"Why? Why, I hardly know you. You hardly know me."

"But I love what I do know, that's enough."

"There is a great deal about me you don't know that would surely change your mind." she said gravely.

"Nothing would. I want to know more about you. I wish you would unburden your heart to me."

"There are some things I wish no one to know."

For a moment neither said anything as a dark cloud began gathering on the brow of the young nobleman.

"He knows those things doesn't he."

"Who?"

"Signor Il Barone," he said sarcastically, "your very dear friend who is always here."

"You're always here too." she said gently.

"But you see him at the opera every day as well. I'm willing to bet that he knows a great many things." he said darkly, perhaps even meanly.

"What are you insinuating?" Morena asked, getting on her guard.

"Are you waiting for him?" he asked incredulously, not answering her question, "are you waiting for you to open his arms and his heart to you?"

"No!" she exclaimed.

"You can wait until you're old and decrepit then. I know you pretend not to listen to gossip but even you must know he's expected at last to wed that divorced Contessa."

"Of course and I'm very happy for-"

"Liar!"

"Why are you being so cruel?" she shouted finally. It seemed to stop him. After a silence he said quietly.

"I am sorry to have upset you. Perhaps I have given myself false hope. I apologize. I will not trouble you again."

"No. Please don't do that. Let's still be good friends."

He looked at her blankly for a moment, then walked out of her house.

Morena would have lied if she said that she wasn't relieved. She had been sensing something of this sort for some time now, and was glad to see it behind her. Yet the episode upset her as well, especially coming so soon after other bad news.

She never told Rodrigo about the proposal. She was afraid to go near the subject of romance with him, for fear she would betray her own secret. He was never the wiser, but things continued as they always did for a few months more before things began to drastically change. One evening in autumn Morena was in her dressing room, frantically fixing her hair and singing scales at the same time, with only a few minutes until curtain. She jumped when she heard a knock on the door, breaking her concentration and making her drop the strand of hair she was holding.

"Come in." she said frustrated. In the mirror she saw, to her surprise, Rodrigo enter.

"Rodrigo, what is it?" she asked with a worried frown as she went back to her hair.

"Morena I'm terribly sorry to disturb you but one of the violinists broke a string and hasn't time to replace it. I can't seem to find another. I thought I saw yours in here the other day."

"Yes of course, it's in the corner over there. Poor man, he must be in a frenzy."

"No, not him. He's cool as can be. Here it is. Thank you so much Morena, I'll leave you too your scales."

"Do make sure he's careful with it. You know how important that violin is to me."

"Of course I will. Good luck tonight Morena." he said, briefly laying a friendly hand on her shoulder.

"You too. Will I see you afterward?"

"Not tonight. I'm meeting Bendetta."

"Of course. Enjoy yourself then." she answered, trying to keep the jealousy out of her voice. It had been weeks since he'd come to her flat. As Rodrigo shut the door she exhaled, letting her disgruntled emotions out so they wouldn't interfere with her performance.

As Rodrigo walked back to the pit he felt inside his pocket for the hundredth time, mechanically opening the velvet box and stroking the circle of gold which closed around a circle of topaz. It was his mother's engagement ring, and hopefully tonight it would become Bendetta's. After all, why not? She was classy, sophisticated, experienced, intelligent, beautiful. They had excellent conversation together. And he was nearing thirty, certainly old enough to settle down and build a home of his own.

"Here you are Richard," he said to the violinist, "it's Morena's and very dear to her so do be careful with it and be sure to give it back to her immediately after the performance."

After that he was preoccupied with his own preparations but he vaguely noted how Richard strangely scrutinized and ran his finger along a distinctive scratch on the neck of the instrument, with a confused frown.


	15. Chapter 15

I'm sorry this took so long. But you can all thank EbonyDea for getting me on my toes. By the way, Clavel, you country is sounding pretty darn good right now. Happy New Year everyone!

Morena did not tell Rodrigo about her proposal. It would be horribly awkward, especially because he would ask her why she turned him down. She knew that know lie she could make up would keep her from blushing when he asked her. She hoped no one would find out. She didn't want to have to bear the silent judgement of everyone she knew and everyone she didn't know. After all, what right did she, an opera singer, a professional entertainer, from a penniless family, have to refuse handsome, wealthy, young nobleman whom every other young woman was fawning over.

One evening, a mere fifteen minutes before curtain, Morena sat in front of the mirror in her dressing room, fixing her hair when an anxious knock sounded at her door.

"Come in."

In the mirror she saw Rodrigo enter. His eyebrows were drawn together, and his eyes fixed steadily on hers as he approached her. He was obviously anxious.

"Morena, Lorenzo, our second violin has had an unfortunate accident with his violin. Do you have yours."

"Of course. It's in the corner over there," she indicated the spot.

"Thank God. Can he use it?"

"Certainly. What happened to his?"

"Apparently it's been stolen and he's been hunting for it for an hour."

"Poor man. He must have been so dreading telling you. He knew you would let all hell break loose."

"Which, of course, I did."

"I know. Don't be too hard on him," she said, finishing with the mirror at last and turning to face him, "you do, after all, want the music to sound decent."

"Morena, decent is never good enough. You'd do well to remember that yourself."

If he knew how much that last sentence would sting her, how sensitive she was to every word he said, he might not have said it. He might instead have remarked, casually, on how radiant she looked, how radiant she always looked before she went on stage. But instead he continued, as he opened the door,

"By the way. Do you mind if I stop by tomorrow, around two, for a stroll. There's something I want to discuss with you."

The weather had become quite cool, downright cold actually, but Rodrigo was an avid walker, and Morena, of course, would not say no.

"Certainly."

He arrived back in the pit, and handed the violin to Lorenzo with a few minutes before curtain.

"You lucky devil," he remarked, giving it to the relieved musician.

Rodrigo smiled as he saw Lorenzo take it out of the case and tune it. It was certainly not the most beautiful violin. It was the one Morena learned to play on, the one that some careless musician had forgotten once. It was scratched in several places, but played well nonetheless. He saw Lorenzo examine every scratch with a confused frown between his eyes.

"You ought to play a bit with it to get used to it," Rodrigo said.

"It feels familiar already," Lorenzo answered with the same confused expression.

The opera went, of course, without a significant hitch. However, Lorenzo's confusion grew into suspicion, which grew into something very near certainty. The instrument was just so familiar.

"I'll bring that back to Morena, Lorenzo."

"Don't trouble yourself," Lorenzo answered, "I'm sure the Countess is waiting for you. I'll return it."

"As a matter of fact, she is. Thank you." As Rodrigo left for the company of a person who was becoming, daily it seemed, an increasingly larger part of his existence, who captivated and charmed him with her independence, coolness and strong will.

Morena was in the process of undressing when knock sounded on her door.

"Who is it?" she asked

"Lorenzo."

As she slipped into a light dressing robe, she thought that it was strange that he was returning the violin himself, rather than Rodrigo. Nevertheless, she opened the door with a smile.

"Thank you, Lorenzo," she said extending her arm to take the instrument. He stared at her strangely, she became uncomfortable and wanted very much for him to leave.

"I hope you didn't have to much trouble adjusting to it?"

He slowly handed it over at last.

"No," he said, "quite the contrary. It seemed strangely familiar."

"Really? Well, thank–"

"It has a very peculiar scratch across the back, doesn't it?"

"Yes."

"Almost as if someone put them there purposely, to mark it as his own, no?"

"I suppose."

"Did you put them there?"

"No."

"No?" he said, arching an eyebrow, pretending to be surprised, "who did?"

"I don't know. I acquired it from someone else."

"Who?"

"I don't know," what was he doing? She was getting more and more nervous.

"No?"

"Lorenzo, please excuse me. I'm very tired and I want to go home."

"Of course. Forgive me. Good evening," he said politely, making a small bow.

Morena shut the door and clutched the violin to her, as if protecting herself from strange questions which were so unsettling they would, for some reason, keep her up all night.

Morena was in no mood for a walk the next day, but at two o'clock she was dressed in her warmest clothes, sitting on her couch, waiting for Rodrigo, trying to look at a book, and forcing her eyes away from the clock. At last, and 2:04 and 34 seconds a knock came and Morena jumped. She regained control of herself as Helene opened the door.

"Good afternoon Helene, how are you."

"Quite well Sir, how kind of you to ask."

"Is your mistress here?"

"Of course Sir, she's right here."

"Good afternoon Morena, you look lovely as usual."

She smiled and extended her hand for him to bend over. As looked at her again.

"Though a bit tired perhaps?"

"A bit. I didn't sleep very well last night."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Perhaps you don't feel quite like a stroll."

"Of course I do. I've been looking forward to it."

"I'm glad to hear it. Let's be off."

He extended his arm and they walked off together. They said nothing until they reached the park, and even then they said little. There was something between them, a tension which was unfamiliar to both of them. While Morena had no idea what caused it, Rodrigo felt the need to end it, and return as soon as possible to the old comradery.

"Morena, I intend to do something very important, and I want you to be the first to know. I don't feel right proceeding with it until you've heard about it.

"Are you going to start Il Pulchreza?"

She named the opera he'd written that they were still waiting to produce. No one but Rodrigo had seen it yet, though Morena had learnt a few arias. What was known of it, was that it would cause quite a political stir, and Rodrigo was waiting for the right time. Perhaps this was it?

"No. To be honest I haven't given that thing a thought recently. Morena, you like Bendetta don't you?"

He did not meet her eyes when he said this, but rather looked straight ahead. It was the combination of this strange look with the gravity in his voice that made Morena nervous.

"Certainly, Rodrigo."

"Good. I do as well. I like her a great deal, in fact. My liking for her has increased almost daily, and"

Morena felt dizzy.

"And I went to the bank today to retrieve my mother's wedding ring. I'm going to ask her to marry me this evening."

Morena couldn't say what happened. She supposed her dizziness got the better of her. Because she felt nothing but her heart accelerating as the world spun faster and faster, finally changing angles before her eyes as she fell. She closed her eyes and braced herself to hit the cold ground but never did. Something had halted her fall. When she realized the something was Rodrigo's arms, and that her head was against his chest, her confusion was broken by one thought, the necessity to get out of his arms which, despite all her dreaming and hoping, would never belong to her. Desperately, almost violently she pushed against him, trying to free herself, but he only held tighter. She, in turn, fought with increasing vigor until the sound of his voice brought her back to where she was.

"Morena, Morena, calm down, it's all right, it's all right."

She stopped and regained control of herself.

"I'm sorry," she said, not meeting his gaze, "I'm so sorry. I've been a bit dizzy all day, and I suppose it overcame me. I became...disoriented. I'm sorry."

It wasn't a lie. She had, in fact, been feeling a bit poorly for a few days.

"It's fine, of course. But today is not a good day for a walk. I'll take you home."

"I'm sorry to be such a bother. And on such an important day."

"Of course you're not a bother."

"So, you really do love her."

"Yes. More than anything, or anyone I've known."

A butcher knife through her ribs would have caused her less pain, but she went on:

"And she loves you."

"I think so."

"And, she...she will be a good wife to you Rodrigo?"

"The best."

They had reached her doorway. She unlocked her door but paused for another moment before going in,

"You've been so kind, so good to me. If I lived a thousand lifetimes I could never repay the debt I owe you–"

"There is not debt Morena–"

"Never. You saved me from a lifetime of the most abject misery. Beyond that, you've graced me with the pleasure of your friendship. I want the absolute best for you, because that's what you deserve. You're absolutely sure she'll be best for you."

"Absolutely."

"Good then. Congratulations Rodrigo. And good luck."

"Thank you, Morena. Tell Helene to cook you a good meal, and be sure to get some sleep."

By now, she could only smile painfully in answer.

She closed the door and calmly, coldly, allowed Helene to remove her coat and other winter apparel. Then she said that she had lost her appetite and would like to rest by herself and not be disturbed. Just as calmly, she glided into her bedroom, and shut the door behind her. She changed into her bedclothes, shut the curtains against the winter sun, and got into bed. Truly, she wasn't feeling physically well, but she didn't even know that, because her heart was torn to shreds. She lie there, alone, in the dark in the middle of the day, and wished to heaven that she had never stolen that violin, that she had never touched his, that he had left her in her filthy, miserable existence at the manor.

Rodrigo arrived at Bendetta's fifteen minutes early. He was eager, very eager, to see her, to talk to her, to get the whole thing over with. Promptly at 6:30, a maid showed Rodrigo in to the sitting room. Bendetta, straight, elegant in her dark blue dress, and radiant, sat on a comfortable chair near the fire, soaking its warmth. She smiled her rich smile when she saw him and held out her hand which he gladly did not only bow over, but kissed.

"How are you today Rodrigo?"

"Very well now."

"Good. I'm starving, shall we eat?"

"I'd love to."

As they took their seats, and all through the meal, Rodrigo fiddled in his pocket to make sure the ring was there. It was a beautifully cut topaz in a gold setting that had been in his family for centuries. Throughout the meal he imagined how it would look on her finger as he admired it. He admired everything in turns: her hair, her immaculate skin, several shades darker than Morena's, her smooth voice, at a lower register than Morena's, the self-assuredness, independence, and even boldness with which she spoke, and which was manifested in her every gesture, accompanied by a confident grace he had almost never encountered anywhere else. The idea that such a creature might be his, or might break his heart, set that same organ pounding. Through the night, he waited for the right moment, until he was surprised.

"Did you go walking today, Rodrigo?" she asked in the drawing room after the meal.

"Yes, only for a short while though. I intended to stroll with Morena, but she nearly fainted and I brought her home."

"Ah, of course. Poor Morena. Morena, Morena, Morena, your dear little protege from the no-man's land of Itolni. I was surprised you hadn't mentioned your ingenue's name yet tonight."

"Do I talk about her so often?"

"Always. I must say, where Morena is concerned, I'm surprised at you. I hadn't thought you would be taken in.'

"Taken in?"

"By Morena. You've done everything for that girl, besides teaching her to sing. You've done an excellent job with her, most people are just as taken in as you are, but I'm surprised you haven seen past her yet."

"What are you talking about?"

" Who knows anything about her? The story is that she was an orphan of a formerly wealthy merchant that you wandered upon during your travels. I'm sorry dear, but no one believes that."

He looked shocked. What did they think?

"Well no one thinks any less of you, of course. But really, how much do you know about her? Do you have any idea what she did to meet you? Who she had to bribe, or who she had to _get to know_? Did you honestly assume that you were the only man in her life?"

"What are you insinuating?" His good humor was rapidly draining away.

"You know perfectly well what I'm insinuating. You know nothing really about Morena, no one does. She has the most obscure past of anyone in Itolni, but she does occasionally betray a lack of polish, which leads one to wonder..."

He could only stare at her. Certainly he knew there were people who thought such things, there always were, but Bendetta, his Bendetta? How could she suggest such things about Morena? How dare she?

"That's a fine comment for the divorcee to make."

Now she stared at him.

"There's no need to insult me."

"Oh, but it's perfectly fine for you to insult Morena. Why? Because her past is _obscure_?

I never would have thought it of you, of all people."

He was quite infuriated now.

"I think you're taking this a bit to seriously, Rodrigo."

"It is a serious accusation. To think, I came here with the intention of proposing to you."

"Proposing! Why, I wouldn't marry you!"

He looked at her.

"I wouldn't marry anyone again. Marriage is the last thing in the world I'm suited for. Don't you know me well enough to know that?"

"Apparently I know far less about you than I had thought."

There was an awkward silence until Rodrigo, without a word, fearing what might come out of his mouth, left.

The next morning he wanted nothing more than to see Morena. Part of it was to feel that he was protecting her from the shots of society, especially people like Bendetta, and part of it was that she would know what to say. He forced himself to wait until about 9:00, when he arrived at her doorstep and rang the bell.

"Good morning, Helene. Is you mistress up?"

"Yes, Sir." She seemed hesitant, and wouldn't meet his eye, or let him in for that matter.

"May I see her?"

"No, Sir."

"And why not?"

"She's told me that no one is to see her for any reason."

"Well, I'm quite sure that 'no one' does not include me."

"No, Sir. She said especially not you."

"Whatever is the matter with her?"

"She's taken ill Sir."

He became slightly nervous.

"Ill? How ill? For how long? Has a doctor been sent for?"

"No, Sir. She ordered me not to."

That was enough, and he said so, forcing his way past her. In a few rapid strides he had crossed the parlor and opened Morena's bedroom door. The curtains were still closed, the room was dusky dark. He looked at the bed. Morena was curled up on her side on one end of the bed, which was in complete disarray. Her eyes were shut tight, but he could tell she wasn't sleeping. He'd never seen her so pale. His heart beat faster. He rushed over to the side of the bed and felt her forehead. She was burning up, and her breathing was labored. He heard a soft, confused "Rodrigo," as he shouted,

"Helene! Hurry and bring me a bowl of cold water, and a glass of lukewarm water to drink. Then run, and I mean run, as if your job was on the line, which it is, to fetch a doctor as you should have hours ago. Run!"

The poor girl ran like a ball from a cannon. Rodrigo focused his attention again on Morena and felt utterly helpless.

"Rodrigo, don't reprimand her," Morena murmured weakly, "she's following my orders. And don't let her go for a doctor. They're an unnecessary expense. I've survived plenty of fevers without them."One a winter, to be precise.

"Don't be ridiculous Morena, you're obviously a ver ill young woman." Helene entered with the water. He felt some purpose. He dipped his handkerchief in the water, wrung it out, and put it over her forehead. She opened her eyes a bit, but shut them tight again.

"What is it?" he asked.

"It's so bright," she whispered.

He could barely see his hand in front of him in the dark chamber. He prayed the doctor would come soon. His limited knowledge of medicine told him that it was important for fever patience to avoid the easy danger of dehydration. With that in mind, he took the glass of water in one hand and slid the other arm behind her neck, and the hand behind her head.

"Now don't try to sit up," he told her, "just lean on me."

Gently, gently he lifted her so she could drink. When she was done, he dipped the already warm handkerchief back in the bowl.

"Rodrigo, please don't trouble yourself. I'll be fine soon. You should be with your fiancé."

He did not deem this the appropriate time to tell her that he had no fiance, so gently whispered "shhhhhhhh," and continued with the handkerchief until the doctor, at last, at last, arrived.

Rodrigo waited in the parlor while the doctor examined Morena. After little more than half an hour, he emerged. Rodrigo stepped forward to shake his hand and introduce himself, which he had yet to do, and then asked for the prognosis.

"It's difficult to say, really. You see, the fever came upon her with great violence in a very short period of time, a very dangerous thing. She seems to think that she would be fine without medical attention. Perhaps that is true in other cases, but you were right to call for me. The Signorina was...let us say, dangerously ill. I've given her some things which I hope will break the fever, gently, but keep someone by her at all times, just in case. I said earlier that it was difficult to say, you see, in my experience fevers so sudden and serious are only brought on by great torment of the mind. Has the Signorina been subject to any great stress or emotional turmoil lately?"

Emotional turmoil?

"Well, she has had some...family difficulties lately. She was upset when she received that letter..."

"That was most likely enough to trigger it. I"ve left her some medication with a list of instructions for their administration. See that she receives them and good luck. She is one of the most reluctant patients I've had."


	16. Chapter 16

All I can say is that I have the most wonderful readers and reviewers on this site for sticking with me. I hope y'all enjoy this. It's a nice, long five pages. I'll try to update within two to three weeks. I love every one of you soooooooooo much. I can't say how much I hope you'll enjoy this. I'm so sorry for any stupid grammatical and/or spelling mistakes.

Morena only became far worse. For another week, she lay in the stale darkness of her room. Frequently, she slipped into delirium. For the first few days, whenever she was conscious, she scolded Rodrigo for abandoning his fiance and told him to leave, once so forcefully he did leave so as not to upset her further. Nevertheless, he remained almost constantly with her, leaving only to conduct at the Opera when no one else could, usually at her side, hardly ever going home, compulsively putting damp cloths on her forehead when he didn't know what else to do. Yet her condition only worsened. At the end of two weeks, the crisis came. The doctor asked Rodrigo if he knew of any of her relations, and that he prepare to write to them if worst came to worst, which was a real possibility. If she didn't get any better after that night, she never would.

So he found himself sitting on the left side of her bed, Helene and the nurse both on the other side, Helene ringing a handkerchief and sniffing quietly, the nurse the picture of an emotionless experienced professional. He supposed that he managed to look so composed himself, but only because fear paralyzed him, fear of what he could not force himself to imagine. He knew, however, without imagining that the worst took place, that he would never be able to write again without Morena. She had become his muse without him even realizing it, besides the most dear friend he had ever had. Was this to be her fate? From a penniless childhood to a life of forced labor she had only just begun to live her life. Would it end before she could even turn twenty? Compulsively he prayed for hours that it wouldn't for both their sakes, until at last he fell asleep.

Some time later he felt the pressure of a hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see who it was, but had to shut them again because of the bright morning light. The realization of bright lights forced him to open his eyes: the curtains hadn't been open since Morena became ill. He looked questioningly at the nurse who nodded, smiling. He turned to Morena who, for the first time in weeks, was sitting up, pale as ever, but smiling.

He had hoped and prayed for this moment for weeks, yet now that it was here he felt as helpless as he ever had. He got up, ran to the kitchen, and locked the door behind him. Then he stood over the sink and wept with utter relief.

A few nights later he carried Morena, much better, but still too week to walk, out of her bed and into the sitting room, followed by Helene, carrying a bundle of blankets which she preceded to tuck around Morena once he had set her down in a chair. Morena rolled her eyes as Helene went into the kitchen to wash the dinner plates and wriggled the blankets looser.

"So, what shall I do tonight to entertain you?" Rodrigo asked, "Read from a novel of your choice, astound you with my brilliant violin improvisation, or simply occupy you with my supremely entertaining conversation?"

"Tonight, Rodrigo, you can visit your fiancee for once. That is if she'll still admit you after so long an absence."

He stared at her in confusion for a moment then said,

"That's right I never told you did I?"

"Told me what?"

"I'm–I'm not marrying Bendetta. She turned me down, thank goodness too. I saw a side of her that night that I could never live with."

"I'm so sorry Rodrigo."

"Not at all. It's a good thing really. I put it behind me days ago."

"So, who have your affections transferred to now?" she asked, half-teasing.

"No one. I think I"ll give the opposite sex a rest from me for a while. You know, I'm surprised that Count friend of yours hasn't been by once to inquire after you."

She turned her head from him,

"Yes, well, I'm sure he's extremely busy."

"So busy as to desert his friends? You're far too forgiving Morena."

"Busy," she said in a tone that closed the topic.

After a pause she asked him to play for a while on the violin.

Watching him play had become a favorite pastime of hers during her recovery. She loved to study his fingers as they chased over the strings. They moved with a passion she could allow herself to pretend, sometimes, was really directed towards her. At any rate, the knowledge that he possessed such passion excited her, made her love him more, reassured her somehow, even though it reinforced the knowledge that she, servant turned entertainer, would never be able to satisfy the passion of the great Baronne Rodrigo DiDivezzi.

Tonight as she watched she had something to ponder. Rodrigo was a free man again; he had been turned down. He was taking it very well. But she wasn't sure which was worse: his rejection or his success. Both left her in agony eternally, but at least with the latter one of them was happy. The former left her free to wonder if there might be a chance, then remind herself that there wasn't over and over a thousand times a day. It was what she was left with.

Eventually the sound of his playing and the motion lulled her to sleep.

Two weeks later she was standing before her mirror in her room, trying without success to clasp a bracelet around her arm. She was going to a dinner party for the first time since before her illness. She would, of course, be expected to sing afterwards. She had spent the afternoon making sure she still could, and now worried that she had overtaxed her voice. She also hoped that she remembered how to behave at dinner parties; it had been nearly two months. And on top of all this worry, her bracelet wouldn't clasp. She supposed that she didn't absolutely have to wear it, but now that she had started she was determined to triumph in the battle of the bracelet if it was the only thing she did triumph in tonight.

"Morena!" she heard from outside.

"I'm coming Rodrigo."

"We'll be late."

"Hold on."

She grabbed her reticule and shawl and opened her door, still trying to get the bracelet on.

"Aren't you ready?" He asked.

"Except for the cursed bracelet."

"Let me see," he clasped it for her in a second.

"Thank you," she said, "that was a bit anticlimactic."

"What was?"

"Nothing."

"You look pale," he said as he draped the shawl over her shoulders, "are you sure you're well enough for this. We don't have to go, you know."

"I'm ready. I'll have to go to one eventually."

"You're sure."

"Positive."

"Come then. We're late."

"Will Bendetta be there?"

"I don't know. I'm taking my chances."

"Are you ready if she is?"

"I'll have to see her eventually," he said, smiling wryly at her.

Bendetta was not there, which caused Rodrigo noticeable (at least to Morena) relief, despite his apparent nonchalance. Morena behaved wonderfully through dinner, keeping up in the conversation as well as she ever had.

After dinner the ladies went into the drawing room and the men stayed behind to immerse themselves in a thick cloud of cigar smoke. Ours being a story that sets itself in a largely patriarchal society, we shall follow the conversation of the gentlemen rather than the ladies for the present. It treated on the subject of indentured servitude and goes something as follows:

"It supercedes the issue of morality," a portly gentlemen with a white mustache said, "it's integral to our economy, and more importantly, a part of our national identity. We're the only nation on the Continent that hasn't given in to pressure to abandon the institution and to that I say congratulations to us. If we can withstand we should do as we like."

"What who likes, Sir? You?" answered a younger gentleman, "The fact is not everyone does like. Fewer and fewer 'like' as a matter of fact."

"It doesn't matter what any of us like, the matter is ultimately up to the king and he'll never agree to release the institution."

"The kind is only mortal. One day his son will have to take over. Then we shall see change."

"Heaven help us all if that comes to pass," said the aforesaid portly gentleman.

"But the king still has decades in him. Is this revolting practice to last until the crown prince ascends? We'll be the black spot on the continent for years to come."

"What do you say, Rodrigo? You've been unusually quiet tonight."

"I think my actions speak for themselves. I freed all of my indentured servants in the past year, or else started paying them regular wages."

"Unfortunately not all of us have pockets the size of the Baronne's." The company seemed to find this very funny and Rodrigo, ever playing the game, smiled himself. The conversation continued but he listened to no more of it because the young Count diNarca took a seat beside him.

"Signorina Arzecci looked well this evening." he said.

"Indeed."

"It seems she is quite recovered."

"Quite. You might have stopped by yourself during her illness. I daresay she would have like that."

"I daresay it would only have upset her more."

"Do you?"

"Indeed."

There was a pause.

"Signor, is Morena...attached?"

"No," he said carefully.

"I see. Do you think...that is...does anything in her behavior suggest that she might be."

"That she might be...ohhhhhhh. I see. You know, come to think of it, there are." There were. She would sometimes stare at nothing for long periods of time. Then there was the time she fainted. Sometimes she would fall into melancholy for no particular reason. But there was a reason after all.

"There certainly are. I'd say you have an excellent chance. Congratulations." He meant it, or rather, he told himself forcefully and repeatedly that he meant it. It would be an excellent match for her. She would be wealthy, titled, respected, and no doubt he would allow her to maintain her opera career at least until there were children. But, for some reason, he couldn't keep the image of the Count's and Morena's children in his mind.

"Not me Signor. It's not me. I've already tried."

Rodrigo looked at him in disbelief.

"You've proposed?"

"Yes, months ago."

"And she refused you?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Are you so blind as to honestly ask me that?"

"What do you mean?"

"You see her every day. You know her better than anyone else, yet I can see what you can't?"

"Will you please just say what you mean?"

"It's you. She wouldn't marry me because she's in love with you."

Rodrigo stared at him for a moment. He was out of his mind. Morena...she didn't...

"You're gravely mistaken I'm afraid."

"Not at all. Look more closely Signor. And, with all due respect, is it possible that you are not, in fact, in love with her?"

Before Rodrigo could tell him that he was being impertinent someone heard the piano and they all left to hear Morena sing, Rodrigo at the end of the line that filed out of the room. In love with Morena? Certainly not. Why, of course there was nothing wrong with her, quite the contrary. She was so good so patient, considerate, clever, passionate, beautiful...that is, her list of virtues went on and on. She was, in fact, so unlike any other woman he had ever been involved with, the gold-digging beautiful Mariannina, the bold, independent Bendetta, and other women he had known some in a deeper sense of the word than others. But in love with her. Obviously, she was too...good, for him to love her.

The sound of her voice resonated through the hall and he unconsciously quickened his steps.

_Ta sola, mueta, rivaa!_

She had over-practiced, that much was evident. There was a dry, tiredness to her voice. He would have to berate her for it in good faith in the morning. But it was something only he would notice, and despite which she still sang magnificently. The drawing room was absolutely still, every eye transfixed on Morena, no one daring to move a finger for fear of breaking the spell of such a beautiful sound.

Rivaa, saivee, yevaa!

She pushed out the highest note of her range and held it like a knife perfectly balanced on a plate, in no danger of falling despite its precarious placement. They had worked for hours to get that right.

"No," he had shouted at her one night in the rehearsal rooms at the opera, months before, "no, no, no, and a thousand times no." He stood behind the piano, having long since kicked over the piano chair in frustration, too proud now to turn it right. His vest was unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up, his hair long out of place. Morena sat across the room. He had finally allowed her to sit when she had asked after hours and hours of work. She heaved a heavy, tired sigh.

"Oh, now you can breath, can you? Where was that air a moment ago?"

"I'm sorry, Rodrigo. I'm just so tired."

"Once more then."

And she did it. He remembered striding across the room to embrace her, putting his hands on her waist and twirling her in the air in his excitement. Now, in this stiff drawing room, he had a wild desire to do the same thing. He could feel her waist in his hands and had to look at the wine glass that was really there to make sure that it was. Then he gripped it suddenly.

He wanted to feel her inside his arms. He longed for her to be next to him right then as strongly as he had never longed for a woman before. He watched her lips caress the words, and her face express with such passion the song, passion that he wished was for him. He saw it now, all his protectiveness, his needing her see her every day, his increasing reluctance to be harsh with her during rehearsals, or do anything to cause her pain, he saw it now, was love. He loved her, loved her madly, wholly, as well as a man can and ever has loved a woman. He loved her voice, not as the rest of the world did for its quality but for itself and because it was hers. He loved her eyes when they lowered in concentration or sparkled in laughter, her deep, resonant laughter. He loved her patience, her eagerness to do well, her goodness. He loved a thousand things he couldn't even name. How, he wondered, could he have denied it for so long? Because, he realized, of who she was. He, after all, was raised to marry a Duchess or a Princess or a Vicomte's daughter. He had always expected to. But how wrong he had been, and how much time he had wasted.

He kept watching Morena, as she finished the song, nodding demurely at the party assembles in thanks. He watched her as she milled about the room, kindly receiving the salutations and thanks of the older gentlemen and the compliments of the younger. For the first time, Rodrigo acknowledged that it was jealousy, not anxiety over Morena's personal future as he had thought, that he felt when a man, younger than he, closer to Morena's age, graciously bent over her hand and kissed it, whispering earnestly, though certainly Rodrigo was too far to hear it, dozens of times how like an angel's her voice was. Tonight he was absolutely envious. He wanted to push the man's hand aside, take Morena's in his own and walk with her away from all of them to be alone with her. Just the two of them. Where they could finally...but wait. How could he be sure about how she felt? What if she did feel only cool friendship for him. But she had, after all, been acting someone strangely. Perhaps...

The young man made her laugh. Rodrigo wanted to punch his teeth out. The man kept talking but Morena's eyes discreetly wandered the room, looking for someone. They landed on him. She smiled. He smiled back, instructing himself to do so just as he would at any other time. Morena said something to the gentleman and walked toward him.

"I'm very tired, Rodrigo. Would you mind terribly if we went home now?"

"Not at all," he said, keeping himself with an effort from pulling her towards her and kissing her, "you sang very well tonight."

"I sounded dry and tired."

"As if you'd just walked through a desert I agree. But beautiful nonetheless."


	17. Chapter 17

What can I say? What words are there to apologize to you all for taking so absurdly and unfairly long to update. I really have the best, most patient readers in the world. Thank you all so much for sticking with me. This chapter was hard. I've never had writer's block like I have with this chapter. And after all that, it's pretty bad. I'm sorry. But at least it's out of the way and we can move on with the story.

"Are you too tired for a cup of coffee?" Rodrigo asked, breaking the awkward silence he knew he had unconsciously imposed over the ride home. The entire way he had been determining to speak, planning what he would say, then deciding not to, then deciding that if he waited he may never speak, then planning what to say...

At the moment he had decided to speak. But what was he doing? He couldn't.

"Perhaps you're too tired; I'd better go."

"No. I wish you'd stay a while."

There it was. She made up his mind for him. After all, he was almost thirty, far too old to be so nervous and indecisive about the whole thing. He would speak and leave it in her hands, as she thought best, then he would carry on. There were, after all, other women in the world.

_But none of them Morena_, an unwelcome voice chirped in the back of his mind. Ignoring it, he opened the door into her chilly house. Helene had left that morning to be with her sister, who had just given birth, and her temporary replacement would not arrive until the afternoon. The house was chilly without a fire and, still in their winter coats, Morena went into the kitchen to make the coffee while he set about lighting a fire.

Despite his best efforts, his fire was no better than a few eagerly glowing coals. Several minutes later, while he was still hunched over the fire, trying to build it up and hide it from her, she emerged, carrying two cups. She handed them both to him, and, without a word, bent over the fire herself.

He hated it when she did that. When they first came to Parissinia and he was completely supporting her, he had forbidden her to do any housework. She was not to make a bed, clean a dish, pump water, or so much as run her finger along the mantle to see if it was dusty. She was especially not to start fires. Among his most odious memories was the one of Morena kneeling in front of his fireplace at some ungodly hour on the coldest days of the year, shivering so hard through her thin shawl that he could see her shaking from across the room, then checking over her shoulder to make sure he was asleep before lingering to steal a few forbidden seconds near something warm.

"I don't know why you don't let me do these things, Rodrigo. Like it or not, I have more experience than you do, and sometimes it's too cold to pretend otherwise," she said matter-of-factly.

"Point appreciatively taken," he replied, removing her coat along with his own and hanging them up as she sat down. Her coat was a lovely fur that he had bought her for quite a bundle after she had recovered from her fever both for practical reasons, to guard her against any future illness in the winter months, and for aesthetic and indulgent ones.

"Tell me something, Rodrigo," she began, "will _Il Pulchreza _ever be produced? All I hear is what a stir it will cause, but I haven't seen anything of it since...since the manor."

"It's coming."

"That's what you always say," she said, throwing her head back slightly in a gesture of mild frustration which he knew well.

"I've decided, just tonight actually, that it still needs to be rewritten; the entire plot needs tweaking. It's going to be even more scandalous. Not only will the handmaiden get the better arias, I've decided to make our hero fall in love with her."

Morena was silent. He wondered if she would notice what seemed obvious to him, that this opera always mirrored the evolution of their relationship. If she did, would she notice that he was trying to tell her something? He held his breath.

"I thought they were only very good friends."

"They were. I've decided to change it. Why compromise? The play is daring as it is, why not make it dangerous?"

"Because you're not only putting yourself in danger. You have people's careers to consider, people without your financial security."

"They'll be fine, you'll all be fine, I promise. I've seen this before, all the blame will go to me; I'll take full credit and responsibility. And what are they going to do to me? Force me to marry their daughters?"

"Well what inspired this sudden decision to alter the plot?"

So she hadn't picked up on his hint. But, on the other hand, she was leading him directly to his point.

_Do it_, he told himself, _it's now or never. Tell her._

"Well, you see, it...it was an impulse." Morena's head shot up and looked at him, her eyes wide with...he didn't know what. "I mean, you see...I'm always at my most impulsive-"

"When you're in love." she finished for him, her eyes staring at him, unwavering and bold, yet what was it about them that was so disturbing? It was if her eyes expressed that they were on the edge of something; steady yet shaking. She knew him entirely.

"Yes, indeed," he said, strangely unsettled.

There was an awkward silence as Morena stood and crossed to the window; a strange action since the curtains were drawn. Running her hand along a fold, she said,

"So soon."

"Yes, I suppose it is soon. Yet not so. I've known her for some time."

"Oh?" she sounded strained, almost choked, "Do I know her?"

"Well...you could say that." He got up himself and walked over to where she was, stopping just behind her so that he could trace the folds himself. She took a step away from him. He hesitated for a moment, but pressed on.

"She's very different from the other women I've loved, or thought I've loved." He stared steadily at the curtain, memorizing its detailed embroidery, trying to make himself forget his nerves.

"How so?"

"She's...more modest, to start with, less experienced in some ways, yet she's had experiences that they never will; experiences she shouldn't have had. She's undemanding, selfless really, despite everything. She's..." what was he doing describing her to herself? Was he going to come out with it or wasn't he? He forced his eyes from a detailed leaf on the curtain to Morena. Her back was still to him, but it was her hand he noticed. It was no longer tracing along a fold but grasping it, clinging to it so desperately that her knuckles were white, so tightly that it made her arm quiver. Could she...? Did she...?

In one rapid motion he covered her hand with his. She started and turned in surprise. There were thin paths of salt water running down her cheeks and a drop dangling from her chin.

"Morena I'm being ridiculous," he said quickly, "it's you I'm talking about. I love you."

Her eyes opened wide and he felt her tense in front of him. She started to turn but he didn't wait. He took her other hand, slid his to her waist, pulled her toward him, and kissed her.

Morena couldn't move. That is, perhaps she could have, but moving was the last thing on her mind. She herself half expected the floor to give way beneath the weight of her disbelief and confusion which settled, rock-like, all over her body and in her mind, totally paralyzing her. What was going on? Was it what she thought was? What it felt like? Was she awake? She couldn't be. But it didn't feel like a dream. It wasn't a dream; she never even allowed herself to dream this while she was asleep.

For a moment Rodrigo moved away, touched his nose to hers, then he kissed her again, gently sliding one hand behind her head. The movement made her begin to relax. Everything was so slow, so gentle, so very much what she had wished would happen for so long now. Slowly, tentatively, unsure of herself yet controlled, she lifted both hands behind his neck, letting him pull her toward him more tightly, encouraged by the even closer proximity of their bodies. She was sure that no moment of her life could ever compare to the joy and ecstasy in this one. He pulled away again and she took in the sight of his face; his slightly open mouth with the perfectly straight, stunningly white teeth, the lovely nose, the closed eyelids with the delicate, long black lashes she knew so well. She had studied them throughout her illness, while he was sleeping by her side and she could stare at him to her heart's content. She memorized the way they clustered and curled while knowing she would never get any closer than...

Her mind stopped; she was frozen again, this time by a thought. Why would he kiss her? Why would he treat her with such...there was no adjective to describe it. He wouldn't. He didn't kiss women like her. He didn't love women like her. He loved shrewd, clever, worldly aristocratic women, women who didn't need him any more than they loved him. She was nothing like them. She needed him; needed him to escape from the hell of the manor, to put a roof over her head and clothes on her back when she couldn't afford to do so herself, to get her a job, to train her to sing and teach her to perform, the list went on. And she loved him enough to have suffered in silence all these months because she knew he could never love her back.

Then what was all this about? There was only one reason he would do this, the realization of which made her blood run faster and hotter through her veins. She had suffered quietly for too long and too loyally to deserve this. How could he? How dare he? She could feel the rage rise from her stomach, pressed so closely to his, by her waist, up through her throat, to her lips. Rapidly and suddenly, she tore away from his as she put her hands on his shoulders and pushed with all her strength. He must have been stunned because he let go easily. Wasting no time, she brought her hand down with all her might across his face. His head turned and his hand flew to his cheek. He turned back, frowning, not in anger but confusion, to Morena.

The pity and regret she felt for the first moment in an instant were replace by triumph at, for once, not receiving but giving the blows.

"How dare you!" she shouted, "How dare you mock me!"

"Morena.." he interjected weakly.

"Get out. I want you out of here now!" she walked to the door and started to open it.

"Morena will you listen..."

"Out!" she screamed drawing on every bit of air she could inhale.

"Wait," he said as he crossed the room in a few strides and stretched out his hand to close the door.

"I pay for this house now and I..." she continued, undaunted.

"Will you listen to me!" he shouted, louder than her, in his most frightening and awe-inspiring maestro voice, grabbing both her shoulders. Her eyes widened as she stopped speaking. They stared at each other for a minute, she shocked, confused, angry, and frightened, he angry now as well, but more frustrated than anything. He took a breath to calm himself.

"Morena," he said gently, relaxing his grip on her shoulders, "will you please tell me what is wrong?" Now he saw tears pooling in her eyes.

"How can you mock me like that after a year of such a friendship as ours?"

"Who's mocking you?" he asked, confused and more than a little offended that he was getting no credit for so brave and risky a declaration. "How can you assume that I'm mocking you after such a year? Don't you know me better than that?"

"I thought I did. But you could only be mocking me because you obviously don't..." she couldn't continue.

"Don't what?"

"Love me!"

"Morena..."

"Please! Leave!"

"Morena, I love you!"

"Stop it!"

"Why will you not believe me?"

"You don't love women like me, women with nothing more than what you've given them. Women who want you and need you. You love clever, witty aristocrats. I have never allowed myself all these months to think that there was even a small chance you might. Because believe it or not I am not so foolish as to be taken in, and I..." she couldn't continue if she wanted to keep herself from sobbing.

"Morena," he said, calmer now that he understood the situation, "you are standing in the way of your own happiness. Yes, you're right, I wouldn't let myself see it for months because of what you used to be and what you are and what you aren't. But please try to forgive a fool who even, he admits, deserved this," he gestured to his inflamed cheek, "for being such a blind, prejudiced pig. I realized tonight that I love you, talking to DiNarca."

Morena looked up at him again and turned white.

"He didn't–"

"He told me"

She turned, her hands covering her face.

"He told me and I couldn't imagine why you would turn down a life of such luxury and security. You see, it was all very strange to me. I knew you, and I knew that you had been behaving strangely for some time, perhaps showing slight symptoms of infatuation. I also knew that a woman like you has to be in love to marry. So adding one and one, you must be in love with DiNarca. But that was even stranger! You couldn't love a man like DiNarca. Well, there's nothing wrong with him certainly, but there's nothing extraordinary about him either. Then who was the object of your fainting fit that day in the park?"

Morena blushed.

"That was enough hope for me to go on. I decided to confess everything immediately and then...this. We could be the happiest people in the world if only you would let us. And why won't you? My title? My wealth? I'll throw it away in an instant, now, if you want."

"And do what? Plough fields?"

"Pave roads, dig ditches if you want."

"You wouldn't last a day without–"

"For God's sake Morena!" he yelled, "Why will you not give in?" She stiffined as he had seen her do at the manor with his cousin. Damn it! Damn this for going so badly and damn him for letting it! In his excited state he had a final idea.

" If nothing will convince you, let me show you what I think of my wealth." He pulled out his wallet and grabbed every bank note that was inside. In one quick, sharp motion, he tossed them all into the fire.

In an instant Morena was there, wildly raking them out before they were too damaged.

"What are you doing?" she screamed. "Have you lost your mind? There are people begging for money in the streets to feed their children and here you are burning yours!" She raked the last of the bills out of the fire.

"There is nothing wrong with wealth, Rodrigo," she said as she smoothed them out, "only with loving it too much."

Which, she realized as she looked over large assortment of bills in their large denominations, he did not. Was it possible he was still mocking her, she wondered. Would he really throw away such a sum of money? He liked to spend money, she knew that well, but he was not extravagant; he would not toss away money, and such a sum, for no cause.

But if he wasn't mocking her...

She had grown so used to not allowing herself to believe what she so desperately wanted to. Could it be that she was too blind to see it when it was right in front of her? It was too much to hope for. And yet...

She looked up at him. He was already staring intently at her, reading her, it seemed, for any change of heart. But what was it in his eyes? Resignation? Despair?

"It seems that I am unable to do anything to convince you," he said, "I am sorry for upsetting you and for destroying the best friendship a man can hope for. I ask your pardon. I won't disturb you anymore." He took his bills, got up and turned toward the closet for his coat.

Morena got up too, and watched him begin to walk away. What was she doing? Could she be throwing away both their happinesses?

"Wait," she said, extending her hand to put it on his arm, trying to halt him before he got to far. He turned. They stared at each other, he waiting, she uncertain of what to say. She didn't move her hand from his arm, the only encouragement she was sure enough of herself to give him. Suddenly, so quickly she felt it before she saw it, he had her hand in both of hers, then he was bent over it, kissing it, as he had done once before, a year ago nearly, when they had both been confused by his impulsive action. That had been a courtly, if rash, gesture. This was different. This was a man in love, an artist in love.

Tentatively, slowly, Morena raised her hand to just above his hair, the hair she had admired for so long from a distance, and finally placed her hand on it. More confident by the second, she ran her fingers through it, learning its length, how it moved, watching the light play off its smoothness. Dear God how she wanted what he claimed to give! How she wanted his lips on her hand to be kissing her out of love, out of the same passion that she had hidden for so long! How she was beginning to believe it!

He lifted his head and her hand slid to his shoulder. They stared at each other again. He's a good man, she thought, he isn't unkind. Give in.

"What was my life before I met you?" he whispered, "nothing. I wandered from country to country, doing everything for myself, living from performance to performance, needing the recognition fame and admiration brought for myself, everything for myself. I was temperamental, selfish, short-tempered, arrogant. You completed me. You brought me face to face with myself and brought out the best in me. I love you for that and for everything; your voice, your walk, your grace, your smile, you-"

She put a finger gently to his lips, still uncertain of herself, but growing bolder. Her gesture had the desired effect, stopping him in mid sentence. She saw a gleam of doubtful hopefulness appear in his eyes. Happiness was literally at her fingertips. If it proved to be false, well, it would not be the first time she would know agonizing sorrow. And if it didn't...

She put both hands on either side of his face. She thought she saw him wince ever-so-slightly and remembered that she'd struck him earlier. Gently, softly, she kissed his cheek, then moved her lips down along his jaw. He didn't wait; while he slipped one arm around her waist he turned her head with his other hand and kissed her as passionately as before.


	18. Chapter 18

Rodrigo stayed until the next day. They lay on the floor all night, through dawn and into the morning, entwined in each others arms, sometimes talking, sometimes each reveling in the joy of the other's presence, until Morena lay her head on his chest and its gentle constant breathing lulled her to sleep. Her hair, which had at some point become undone, spread about and on top of him. Rodrigo ran his hands through it until he too drifted off.

Rodrigo woke first some hours later. The tiny stream of sunlight squeezing through the curtains was enough to bewilder him when he awoke to his unfamiliar surroundings.

Where was he? Why wasn't he in his own bed? Why was he lying on the floor? He tried to get up but there was a weight on his chest. He looked down, felt the silky softness of Morena's locks on his neck and against his cheek, and remembered all. He pulled her gently tighter to him and bent his neck to kiss the top of her head. She must have been sleeping more lightly than he thought, for it was enough to rouse her. She seemed startled, opening her eyes wide, starting slightly, recoiling from his arms. Then their eyes met and he felt her relax against him again.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, kissing her head again "I didn't mean to wake you."

She smiled and murmured "I don't mind" into his chest. They lay there in silence for a few moments more.

"What time do you suppose it is?" She asked finally. Rodrigo stretched out his arm to his coat which was above them on the sofa. From it he withdrew his pocket watch. He had to smile when he saw the time.

"Almost noon."

Morena leapt up, suddenly full of energy.

"Noon! How did we sleep so late?"

"We were up late," Rodrigo answered simply, "or early rather."

"Almost noon! The day's half gone."

"Hardly."

But Morena was on her feet, pinning her hair back again, straightening the room and making a good amount of noise, Rodrigo thought, while she did so.

"It's too early," he complained, "come lie down again. You need your rest."

"Noon!" was all she said as she pulled open the curtains to Rodrigo's loud protestations, submerging the room in winter sunlight.

"Noooo!" he cried.

"Get up," she ordered, "I'll put some lunch together."

"I don't want food. I want sleep; more rest. Come back." He held out his hand toward her. She smiled at him but wouldn't take it. Determined, he sat up, grabbed her waist with both hands, and half sitting her gently on top of him, half falling with her safely in his arms, he landed on the ground with her, both overcome by laughter.

"Both of us have work we should be doing," She said solemnly.

"Of course. Important work. Such as," he said, moving his head closer to hers, "for example," as he kissed her.

She let him linger for a moment before she coyly pulled away, but he had her in his arms again before she could get up.

"Rodrigo, it's noon!"

"It's Saturday, what difference does it make?"

"I have to practice."

"I have to write. It will wait."

"You're the one who always told me that practicing doesn't wait."

"Yes, but I wasn't in love with you when I said that."

It had the desired effect. Somehow they merged into another kiss.

It was another hour before Rodrigo realized that he was supposed to have met with Antonio at noon. He had been at the piano accompanying her in an aria when it suddenly dawned on him with all the force of the real world they were both so willing to neglect in their cozy, tiny, newfound realm of each other. Before he ran out the door they made dinner plans for that evening for one of the most stylish restaurants in the city to celebrate "each other, life, and the divine combination of the two" as Rodrigo had said.

Morena ran to the window and watched him as he walked to the corner and hailed a cab, marveling at the beautiful fluidity of his arm as he raised it, the same arm whose pressure she could still feel around her waist. She watched as he got in, following the movements and gestures she had memorized so diligently. She watched as the cab drove away, down the street and around the corner. She looked at the clock and counted the hours until he would come by again and they would spend another evening together, counted the hours of sweet anticipation, no longer merely anticipation of seeing him and being in the same room as him or engaging in conversation with him, but finally to have everything she felt returned to her; to be loved at long, long last and by him!

She looked at the piano he had just been playing ad remembered that she needed to practice. She walked over and gently caressed the keys he had just touched. She laughed aloud. Only a moment ago he had been caressing her.

He loved her!

All the months of wondering and repressing and suffering were over; were for nothing. He loved her as much as she loved him.

She put a finger to her lips, remembering the feeling of his lips on hers, of his taste...

_I could go on daydreaming like this until this evening_, she thought to herself, _but I absolutely _need _to practice_.

She sat down and slid her fingers over a scale. She played a chord. She played them together. But she didn't feel like singing. She leaned forward and laughed again. When had she ever felt so euphoric? When had she felt less like practicing?

Mid-laugh she turned and her eye fell upon the desk she used for writing.

_Leonardo_! She thought, _I have to write to Leonardo. _

With a bit more energy than was necessary she pulled out a piece of paper and sat down to write to the person who had kept her going through so much for too long. Pushing a piece of hair out of her face, a new gesture for her; she was used to wearing it up but Rodrigo seemed to like it so down, she began writing.

_To my most dear and beloved brother,_

_When has a sister ever been so happy? When so grateful for the love of a brother which has kept her going through the years to come to the happiness she has so desperately sought. Finally I write to the dearest brother in the world good news, happy news, news that I have fallen in love and am loved in return..._

Rodrigo hopped from the carriage still humming the aria he had worked on with Morena and handed one of the larger denominations of recently charred bills to the driver. He was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to hear the loud expressions of gratitude from the driver. He did the same to the maid at the door, and broke into song as he led himself into Antonio's study.

"Antonio, my friend!" he exclaimed, bursting through the door.

Antonio didn't lift his head from the book he was reading on the divan, but regarded the enthusiastic Rodrigo from below raised eyelids as he made his was across the room to pour them both a glass of brandy.

"Signore Rodrigo. How considerate of you to grace me with your presence so soon after the time we appointed relative to eternity." He said, putting his book down.

"A thousand thousand apologies. Thank you for waiting so long for me."

"Mmmm. Indeed. What held you up for so long?" He asked, taking the glass Rodrigo held out for him.

"Congratulate me, Antonio," he took a sip, "I'm in love."

"Again!" he said smiling roguishly, teasing, "Already? Do I know her?" He paused as a gleam of realization and hopefulness came into his eye, "Please tell me you've reconciled with La Contessa."

"Yes, you know her. But God knows she's certainly not Bendetta. Antonio," he began earnestly, "You are a very dear, old friend of mine, so you will understand and accept what I am about to tell you I'm sure. I can barely understand it myself but surely you'll just take it in stride as I am and revel in the joy it brings. Last night was the strangest, yet most rewarding night of my life. I finally admitted something to myself that I've refused to acknowledge for a long time. After over a year of knowing her only now I've realized the effect she has on me that I called friendship or professional inspiration, is love. I am deeply, wholly, passionately, madly in love with Morena."

The only sound was not the jovial tones of approval Rodrigo, in his euphoric state, was hoping for, but the ear-splitting shattering of crystal as Antonio lost his grip on his glass. Much later, when Rodrigo would go over every memory he had connected to Morena, he would realize that a quick tremor passed through his body as the goose bumps rose momentarily on his arms. The expensive crystal hit the floor, ricocheting off and splitting again and again millimeters about the ground as the two men stared down at it. At the moment Rodrigo heard the glass drop it was as if a delightful spell had been broken, or he had been woken from a dream. His smile fell along with his spirits.

"I'll have it cleaned up." Antonio said finally, ringing a bell.

"I take it you don't approve then." Rodrigo said flatly without shifting his gaze from the broken glass.

Antonio regarded him for a moment, observed the straight, proud posture of the Itolnian nobleman, posture learned from his earliest days, observed his apparel, the silk cravat, imported from the East, that cost a small fortune by itself, the proud chin and aristocratic nose, before laughing sardonically and answering,

"No, I don't approve."

Rodrigo kept studying the broken glass.

"What do you think you're doing?" Antonio went on, trying to get his friend to look at him, " What has she done to you? Caught you under some spell she learned from a Colistan witch no doubt-"

"What has she done to me?" Rodrigo's head finally snapped up and he looked Antonio in the eye, his own filled with an emotion Antonio didn't remember seeing in them before. It was a strange mix of pride and indignance; some form of passion he had not observed before.

"You ask what she has done to me? She's made me a new man. What was I before but an impatient, arrogant, aimless musician who only laughed a few times a year, and never at himself? She has taught me to feel; not to sense and perceive things based on how they improve my life but to feel things for themselves; to enjoy life not just for myself but for all mankind. And not even you can claim that my music hasn't improved since I met her. When I first knew her I thought it was she who needed me. But now I see I need her just as much."

"Fine. I've seen you change. Your music has improved and you're producing more of it, but you've also spent a year abroad. Your music has matured as it would have regardless of the dregs you've pulled out of the gutter of society. You're hitting a routine period of productivity. All musicians do at some point. You're insulting you're family's name and honor to attribute it to some woman you've plucked up off the street. And I've noticed other changes in you as well, and so have other people. I've seen you lose the world's respect for your name. You are the only living representative of the oldest, finest, best-respected family in Itolni. I've seen you squander that respect by close association with musicians, by supporting one whose past is as unknown and secret as yours is public. What you seem to enjoy terming "arrogance" the rest of the world calls self-respect and dignity as befitting an aristocrat of your status. Any you've lost it, willingly forfeited it for nothing."

Antonio's dissertation ceased as a maid came in to take care of the glass shards.

Rodrigo crossed to put his glass down on the table. Antonio sat down again on the couch, his eyes, Rodrigo noticed, constantly wandering over and exchanging glances with the girl who couldn't have been more than 16.

"Maria," he called as she started to go. He gestured for her to come to him. Rodrigo watched as he whispered something in her ear, allowing his hand to linger from her cheek, down her back, and up again along her jaw.

After a minute the girl pulled away, smiling excitedly, and left. Antonio watched her go with the same sardonic smile he has just given Rodrigo.

"There's your solution," he said when the door was closed again. "Maria is a particular favorite of mine. Why could you not simply allow Morena to become a particular favorite of yours? Maria is quite satisfied with the arrangement, she knows its limits and reaps its benefits, and I doubt Morena, being from a nearly identical background, would object either."

Rodrigo stood frozen and speechless, hoping his ears had deceived him, knowing they hadn't. He could feel the anger manifesting itself as boiling heat in his stomach, spreading throughout his body, as tension in every muscle in his body. This man he had called "friend" all of his life, whom he had trusted, had so quickly proven false. He was no better than any other supercilious courtier, accustomed to having everything his own way, the kind of person Rodrigo had come to despise.

And to dare to insult Morena.

To have the audacity to suggest that she could…he couldn't think of it…to call her, in essence, a whore. She! The purest, truest love he'd ever had. It was enough to drive him mad with barely-contained rage. What could he say to this man in parting? This man on whom he had wasted so much time in calling 'friend.' He would have liked to strike him but for the sake of their history he restrained himself.

Finally, not trusting himself to speak, he said nothing. Without a word or so much as a gesture of parting, Rodrigo turned and walked out of the room and out of the house, forgetting his coat and hat as he did so, and not remembering them until he had walked the mile back to his own home.

If only Rodrigo had remembered his things. If only he had been less excited. If only he had gone back. For if he had he would have seen a letter on the table about to be taken by messenger to the person whose name was written on it: _Lorenzo Leale_. If he had only turned around, things would have turned out very differently and a great deal of heartache would have been spared.

That night, he arrived early for Morena. He was rewarded by being able to slip the comb into her hair and clasp the necklace around her neck, laying a kiss on that same member as he did so. He wrapped his arms around her in the carriage, keeping them both warm against the freezing winter air, and protecting her from all of those who would dare to say that she was too lowborn for him; that he shouldn't associate with, let alone love, her. But he did, and he would not heed them.

He did not tell her of what had transpired that day with Antonio. But as time went by and Rodrigo didn't mention his friend, Morena gathered it for herself. She knew Antonio would not let Rodrigo get away with loving her. She was sad for Rodrigo, certainly, to think that he had lost such a close friend of so many years. But it would have been a lie to say that she wasn't relieved that she would no longer have to contend with him, his derogatory comments and condescending demeanor. It would have been a lie to say she was elated at the thought that Rodrigo had chosen her over Antonio.

Besides, some weeks later, when her brother finally answered her letter, she would not tell Rodrigo of its contents either. She would read it alone in her dressing room, during a break in rehearsal one afternoon, and when she would hear Rodrigo's knock she would wipe the tears from her eyes and throw the papers into the fire before telling Rodrigo to enter. But it wouldn't take Rodrigo long to conclude what had happened, especially when Morena ceased to speak of her beloved brother. He knew that Leonardo must have warned Morena against impulsive foolishness, told her that she was being misled by the luxury of the life she was living now. He would have told her that the intentions of the object of her affections could never be honorable, that Rodrigo could never, despite everything, regard her as an equal. And Rodrigo would be elated at the thought that she had chosen him over her brother.

So that night, over an appetizer of oysters, they toasted each other and their new-found love, ignoring the idea that it may be proven impossible.


	19. Chapter 19

I'm so horribly embarrassed. Please disregard the previous update and, if at all possible, forget what you read. I forgot that I had copied and pasted that stuff towards the end of the chapter into this document. It really wasn't supposed to be there. This is the chapter as it is supposed to stand. I'm so sorry. This story has so much more to go before it's done and I'm kicking myself for giving away so much. I'm an idiot!

Oh ya, and I'm really a horrible author for not updating for a year. Sorry!!!

Morena sat at the vanity in her dressing room at the opera, hands in her lap, head bowed over the score she held in them. The room was warm, almost oppressively hot and airless Morena realized in the back of her mind. She found herself missing the soft rose lamp shades her predecessor had installed in the dressing room and which she had recently had replaced with these harsher, simpler shades.

Slowly, hesitating, she folded over the final page of the score and lifted up her head, ignoring the angry protestingn muscles in her neck, unintentionally meeting her own eyes in the mirror and catching the nervous concern that shone from them.

He had finished.

After years of thinking and drafting and redrafting, Rodrigo had started more or less from scratch only the day after he declared that he loved her, and in not quite four months had finished. That morning, he had come late into rehearsal with his coat unbuttoned, shirt sleeves rolled up, hair, slightly disheveled, falling over his forehead no matter how many times he tried to swat it out of the way, frazzled and excited to start handing out copies of the score. Morena doubted he had slept at all in the two days since she had seen him last.

And the opera was hardly the only new effort he had released lately. There was the symphony, three sonatas, a full mass, and two oratorios in less than four months. And all of it, every phrase, every note, was brilliant. He had achieved a period of copious brilliance the like of which even many great musicians only ever dreamt.

And, often to Morena's great discomfort and embarrassment, he credited it all to her. He called her his muse, his inspiration. She'd lost count of the number of times she had fallen asleep to the sounds of his hands squeezing melodies out of her poor tired piano well past midnight. There were few sounds she loved more.

But had she inspired this? Could someone like her, as generally soft-spoken and reserved as she was, have possibly inspired something so…dangerous? It was beautiful; its beauty took her breath away and brought tears to her eyes, but it challenged every old-fashioned convention Fraznia was so proud of even when the rest of the continent despised it for them. How could he risk producing it? And what's more, he had written most of it at her piano while she listened, making suggestions occasionally. She had known it would be risky but she never imagined this. She had expected it to make the entire company nervous, but now she was downright afraid, the concern that shone from her eyes turning into sparks of fear as she imagined herself singing those words. Fraznia wouldn't take kindly to this sort of thing.

She heard a familiar knock on her door.

"Come in," she said. Without raising her head, she watched in the mirror as Rodrigo crossed the room. Without meeting her gaze, he put his hands on her shoulders and bent down to put a gentle, yet eager, kiss that hinted at some barely repressed emotion, on her neck. Such a kiss, she knew from the experience of the past few months, signaled utter exhaustion. Usually she delighted in comforting him, stroking her hand across her forehead while she hummed away his fatigue. But tonight she had her own sources of worry. She jerked her neck away almost without realizing it, and although she regretted it when he saw the surprised, confused, and disappointed look he gave her, she still refused to look at him. He stopped and stared at her in the mirror, forcing her gaze to meet his. He must have sensed the apprehension in her eyes because he knelt down next to her and looked earnestly into the corner of her eye.

"You're angry with me."

"No, not angry."

"What is it?"

She looked away.

"Tell me."

Slowly and hesitatingly she turned to meet his gaze, "you've been keeping this from me," she said slowly and almost regretfully.

He let his head drop for a moment as he sucked in a deep breath, as if to say "on top of everything else I have to appease the one who is supposed to comfort me". He finally looked at her again.

"I didn't want to frighten you."

"I'm frightened now. One way or another I was going to be frightened."

"I know," he said, "I'm sorry. But I promise you it will be all right. My name will protect us all. The opera may be a bit unpopular for a while, but the season is almost over as it is. A few patrons may boycott for a time, but there's nothing Parisinians won't forget in six months. Don't worry."

"It's a beautiful opera Rodrigo, perhaps the most brilliant thing you've written yet" she said sincerely, "and it's a story that needs to be told. But Aloise, my character, Rodrigo I don't know if I can. It's so very…close to home. _That_ frightens me too. Rodrigo, this is a dramatized version of _our_ story."

"No one in the world will be able to play Aloise like you will. Think of what you can do Morena. Who but someone who has been in Alosise's very situation could make the opera worthy of producing?"

Morena looked at him in the mirror, at the sagging bags under his eyes, the hair that was still disheveled and falling across his eyes, the skin that was several shades paler than usual.

"Look at you," she said, hoping her soothing tone would relax herself as well as him, "you look exhausted and I'm burdening you with my petty, unfounded fears. When was the last time you slept?"

He laughed softly, "two nights ago. But I've fallen asleep at the piano a few times."

"That doesn't count," she said softly, running her fingers through his hair, lifting the stubborn strands off his forehead. He closed his eyes, and let his head fall onto her side,

"You should go home," she said, before bending down to kiss him gently on the forehead, "sleep."

But he opened his eyes and pulled her closer to him, and with her head cupped in his hand, whispered "_man ama, nonce hare nenci lo ke armariete." "_My love, I would never do anything that might hurt you" to her softly in Itolnian before kissing her again.

He had no idea.

_Il Pulcrezzi_ pir Il BaronneRodrigo DiDivezzi

Une Opera Nuve

Cun Morena Arzecci i Andre Ricole

"Doesn't look too bad, hm?" Rodrigo said to the company which had assembled in a semi circle of folding chairs on the stage that afternoon. Morena sat in the font, chatting with Andre about one of the duets ("it's a beautiful piece of music," he had said, "but I don't know if anyone in this country will buy the love story")

"Posters already Signore?" someone asked

"We've had posters for ages. This is a project long in the making. It's gone through more rewrites than I can count."

"And he gives us the version that will damn us all." Andre finished, prompting a wave of nervous laughter from the company.

Such an announcement circulated throughout Parissinia for the next few months as rehearsal began. Nothing was known of it outside of the opera. But those inside who were involved with it could think of nothing else and just pray that the Baron's name would, in fact, protect them all. Not everyone committed himself to the project, a number of singers and musicians, stage hands and assistants offered the sabbatical offered them by the directors of the opera, at the suggestions of the Baron himself, or simply walked out of the Parissinian opera forever, insulted by the unforgivable assault on their country's time-tested customs. But many more stayed, committed to the Baron's music if not the message he so desperately wanted to tell.

No one, of course, would ever have suspected how close they were to that message.

And as the remaining company rehearsed a former violinist of the Fraznian opera met with an Itolnian nobleman whose purse, as was the talk of Parissinia, was no longer so well lined with bills as it had been some weeks before, due to a mysterious and inexplicable falling-out with a good friend who also happened to be the major source of what wealth the nobleman possessed.

The two men spoke in low voices late in the evening, only a few candles burning in the sconces. Their heads were bent over a violin. The former musician spoke earnestly, handling the violin gently and pointing now and then at certain marks on it, the result of years of use despite the most guarded care.

"And she has no idea you've switched instruments?" The nobleman asked earnestly.

"None."

"You're sure of it?"

"Of course, Signore."

"Very well then. I shall hope that I remember accurately the name of that Viscount, and deliver a message to him myself, bearing this news, and see if he cannot further illuminate this intriguing situation."


End file.
